The Legacies We Leave Behind
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: James and Lily Potter had seen something more than a monster, more than a thing, more than an it, an animal abandoned to die. They had seen something worth saving and had taken her in. That was, perhaps, the Tau'ri's biggest mistake. Wraith!Harry. Fem!Harry. Eventual Grey/Dark Harry. Dad!Todd. Harry/Multi.
1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE: WHAT IS IN A NAME?**

 _ **Todd's P.O.V**_

Early on in his extensive, lengthy life, the Wraith known as Todd was given a different name by his own kind. Although it could be whittled down to a singular word when using vocal communication, in that action, it lost the soul of it. _Guide_. It was more than a name, encompassing all he was, would be, and could be.

It was the very essence of his being, his life force, the beat of his heart. Names to them, the Wraith, were nothing like those of the humans, chosen purely on the satisfaction of the rolling vowels or the pulse of consonants. Todd, Lewis, Steve, pretty sounds but gouged and superficial.

And so many, from what he understood of it, could be named the same thing. Redundant. Pointless. More than one human could be called John or Matthew, and the only way to tell them apart was another material matter, the structure of their body, a scar, the colour of their hair. Humans, Todd believed, were wholly entrapped in the artificial dimensions of life. It was sort of tragic, in a way, if it was not so aggravatingly fatuous. How they continually survived, flourished and prospered, when their attention was primarily on the visual and materialistic aspects of life was beyond Todd's grasp.

No. A Wraith's name was simply… _More._ Through their telepathic natures, they could link, feel each other, connect like root systems, gain more from a single glance and probe from another than a human could 'talking' for hours upon days. Really, all things considered, it was surprising humans accomplished anything at all with their inane need for chatter.

So, when he had been birthed from an old, dying queen and her consort at the tail end of the Lantean-Wraith war, near 10,000 years ago, it was his essence that was judged and named accordingly, not his eyes or nose. It was he who was deemed the one who goes alone. Ahead. Sure-footed and certain, capable of finding the path for others to follow behind. That was how he _felt_ , and that was who he was, who he could and would be and so, through tongue and lip, it had been choppily shortened to Guide, if one was so inclined to butcher their language in such a savage way.

Through his life, Todd had followed his true name. He didn't hesitate. His feet was swift and confident. He led, he fought, and most importantly, he pathed the way for his people to prosper against the odds stacked against them, against the wishes of those who hoped to see them gone and dust. A nightmare long laid to rest. However, in the end, though victory had came for the Wraith against the Lanteans, this path he had tread had led him to a Genii cell, far from his hive, or any hive, cut off and haemorrhaging, alone in the silent void of isolation, starving with only the ache of loss to keep him company.

Idly, he wandered if _she_ was out there. The little babe. The little girl who would one day grow to be queen, so precious were their females, so few and rare. _Gift_. Full of life and hope and light. Was she following her name? Did she even know of it? Had she found or been found by their people? Was she well and cared for? What was her hive like? Was she a thinker, like he, or a fighter, like her mother? These were the questions that tormented his mind as undiluted hunger slowly devoured him from the inside, in that dank, damp cell.

* * *

 ** _Harriet's P.O.V_**

Harriet Potter had been christened many things in her relatively short life. The chosen one. The girl-who-lived. Voldemort's nemesis. The fucker who just wouldn't die. Monikers given to push her to fight, to flame her fire of rebellion and riotousness, tossed at her to spur her to action. They were entirely unnecessary. Harriet would have fought either way, she supposed. That was what she was. A fighter. A survivor. The gift that kept on giving. Knock her down and she only came back swinging. Perhaps that was all she truly how to do. Fight. It was sad, so very sad, and yet it was all she had, this bitter fight and so, she did all she could.

The Philosophers stone, the basilisk and Tom Riddles diary, time-turners, werewolves and rescuing a prisoner, tournaments and graveyards of death and loss, corrupted ministries and halls of prophecy, cabinets of transportation and a tower of deceit, people pulling her strings, making her dance to their song, and through it all, she fought, she bled, and she carried on. It was a cycle she had mournfully become well acquainted with. She won some, she lost most, people fell to the wayside, dead and gone, and Harriet was left to stand once more on trembling knees, bloody knuckled, readying for another round she wanted nothing to do with. In this life, there was no getting out of the ring until the final bell tolled and, dejectedly, Harriet thought that bell sounded too much like a nail in the coffin being hammered home.

There was no other choice really, none but to follow those monikers others had given her, to walk the path they pathed, or die on the lonely road like so many of her predecessors. Alice. Frank. Lily. James. Dobby. Sirius. Dumbledore. Cedric. Gideon. Fabian. All better men and women than she, surely, and yet, they were dead and here she was, still breathing. Harriet wouldn't lie, she didn't want to die, the thought frightened the fuckin' hell out of her, she didn't want to fade or leave and so, step by step, she walked forth, hoping, praying that this day was the final day to this madness.

Nonetheless, those monikers had been marginally better than the original names given to her. It. Thing. Monster. Diseased. Labels affixed upon her to highlight her otherness, her oddities, her differences. They had been names thrust at her to divide her from them, segregate her away, outline her into the scary box of 'foreign' and 'outsider'. If _she_ was the monster, the thing, then they were the people, the heroes and for once, they could feel good about themselves. In the end, it was never really about her, it never had been, but about them. For a long time, before she had got her Hogwarts letter, it had worked. She had believed it all. She was a monster. She was a thing. She was an it. Not human. Not sentient. Nothing close to having a soul or heart of her own. Then again, for a long time, before her acceptance into the wizarding school, all she had was Dudley, Petunia and Vernon.

Still, she _was_ foreign. She _was_ an outsider. She _was_ , to many, even to some friends, a monster who occasionally wore a human face sewn together with magic to ease their dread. A sheep's mask to hide the wolf from the flock. She felt their fear, smelt it too, buried and hidden as best as they could, but never deep enough to hide from her nose and mind. She felt their trepidation as they looked into her eyes, her real eyes. She felt them tense when she entered a room, felt them hesitate to touch her, to be near, felt their hearts tremble or skip a beat when she stepped out of a shaded corner. Even Ron and Hermione were not immune to these reactions, though they were always fastest to recover.

She felt it all and she _wept_. Legilimency came natural to Harriet. As easy as clapping, as natural as breathing, and, in truth, Legilimency was the closest name Snape and Dumbledore had to label what she could do. Most of the time, she did it without realizing she was. She... _Felt_ people. Heard their thoughts if they were close. Smelt their emotions lingering in the air, tantalizing as it was insulting to her sensitivities. It helped, in a way. Words were often lies, or at least, only partially true. Their feelings couldn't lie, what they said in their mind was brutally honest, blunt and uncensored. Harriet lapped it all up like a kitten drinking milk. It helped fight the loneliness, the isolation, the disconnect between her and others. In the other way, it only hindered her, proving what divided her from them was too vast to swim across, an ocean of instinct, hesitation and fear. No matter how much she tried, how hard she fought, how fast or far she swam, she would never cross that canyon and would, forever, be something other.

 _She would never be one of them._

That realization had stung like battery acid dripped into the eye. After all, the taunts, the names of it and thing weren't wrong, not really. When she wasn't encased in layers of transfiguration and illusion spells, her oddities irrevocably separated her from the crowd she so longed to fully be a part of. Her frosty, pale green skin that held a glimmer of shine, that appeared to be ashen in bright light, made her yearn for hues of pinks, browns and tawny. Her lack of brows meant she couldn't frown or quirk one imperially high in amusement or jolt them both up to show shock and it hurt to, yet again, have another mode of communication taken from her when she did so poor with words. The small, slit like dimples on the apple of her cheeks felt like brands most days, markings to be weary of, a visual representation of everything wrong and different about her. Somedays, she dreamed of running her fingers over cheek skin and finding only smooth surface, no small ridge or sensitive dips. Her salt white hair only made the green shimmer of her skin more prominent, the almost yellow iridescence of her cat slit eyes eerily significant. She wished her nostrils could flair out wide like the others, that she wasn't as tall as she was, that her teeth were a little less keen and pointed. But, as Harriet knew, wishing never worked and so she was left outside the boundaries of normality. Outside the crowd. A visitor in her own life. The interloper of reality.

Of course, many had their reasons, their theories, of what she was. The original Avada Kedavra she had been struck with had mutated her somehow, turned her into this. This one held less ground for, well, she had been found exactly as she was. Half breeds between wizards and creatures were not rare in the wizarding world, minotaur, mermaids and Veela being only a few of the offspring of such dalliances between man and animal and she was simply one such example. A wrong runt discarded by some unknown beast. Perhaps a Dementor. Malfoy had found great pleasure in tormenting her with that one. Of course, there were others more outlandish. She was a product of an experiment conducted by Slughorn. She was a changeling baby replaced on the death of Lily and James and, of course, Ron's favourite, that she was an alien from a far-off flung world. At least she had the self-awareness to laugh at those ones.

Yet, how and why she came to be, as strange as it sounded, did not matter much to Harriet. She was unalike and she was okay with that. So much so, if only that difference didn't separate her from the crowd. She was a herd person, a bee, a communal entity. Being isolated, alone, lost and singular… No. It was best not to dwell on such dreary thoughts that left her waking in the middle of the night, sobbing until no more tears could come and she was left dry heaving over the toilet bowl. The names had hurt for that very reason. They underpinned her seclusion, her singularity, her outsider-ness. It solidified the 'us' and 'them' mentality, and in the end, she, to everyone, was neither us or them but something uncomfortably outside those realms.

Maybe it only reminded Harriet of aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon, and that was why she was so averse to those names. Spending your childhood, right up until you were eleven, locked in a closet, hidden from the word because of what you looked like, slapped and kicked for even going near a window, starved and beaten for sneaking out into the backyard when you were seven just to have a breath of fresh air for the first time in your life, well, surely that would make anyone angry when those same slurs those very people used were mirrored back by strangers. Or, perhaps, it had hurt even more coming from Petunia because she was related to the very woman and her husband who had found Harriet in a mangled heap of metal, vine wires and, according to Sirius, a translucent skin like shielding over a domed little pod that had been cracked and leaking some strange, thick, fog like smoke.

It hurt because then, for just once, James and Lily Potter had seen something more than a monster, more than a thing, more than an it, an animal abandoned to die. They had seen something worth saving and had taken her in. Within the week, they had adopted her through magical means, gave name and home to her and, for the first and only time, she had been a part of something bigger than a singular construct. She had been a part of a _family_. Even though Petunia adored to tell her, her adoption was the conclusion of Lily and James losing their own son just a week before her discovery through a problematic birth, that she was just a fill in, a poor mimicry, a plug, Harriet couldn't fully trust that.

James and Lily had loved her. Bathed her. Fed her. Sang her to sleep and rocked and played with her. They had given their family name to her, a home, and treated her as if she one of them… No, she _was_ one of them. Sirius had told her that often enough. By Merlin, in the end, James and Lily had willingly given their lives to protect her, to keep her from harm, if that was not love, Harriet didn't know what was. Sirius too had sacrificed himself for her, shoving her out of the way of Bellatrix's curse, taking the hit to the chest, falling through the Veil before Harriet could reach him. He had loved her too. Deeply. She _knew_ that.

And she wasn't alone. Not wholly. Ron and Hermione, even if they still feared her a little, a seemingly natural instinct to her visage, loved her enough to abandon their own safety, their own homes and lives and to come with her, to go on the run, scavenging for Voldemort's Horcruxes so they could finally end this horrid war. Harriet, no matter what names were slapped on her, no matter who called her what, no matter how much fear was underlying the surface of her friendships, would not and could not let that love go to waste. She would end this war, end Tom and all those who stood in her way. For Lily. For James. For Sirius. For Ron and Hermione. She'd kill them all if she had to. For _them._

"You alright there, Harri?"

Harriet snapped out of her swiftly darkening thoughts. Who was she kidding? Her thoughts had only been doom and gloom for a while now. Still, she fought back the sickening wave of rage bubbling up her gut, burning her throat and stinging her eyes. Perhaps it wasn't rage at all, but thirst. Her eyes darted over, across the tent, to Hermione, who stood bent half in half out the flap door, sunlight blazing at her back, one eyebrow cocked high as she took in Harriet's sitting form in the far corner.

Subconsciously, Harriet's thumb had been running over her right palm, up and over, down and across, around and around, much like her thoughts. There, on the previously unblemished skin was a little hint of a line, a pinkish mark that was darkening each day, slicing deeper. She knew there was another on her other palm too. They didn't hurt, sometimes they tingled and spasmed, but pain never came. Still, she didn't know what they were, why they were appearing now, or what it all meant, but something, right there, in the crease of the deepening slit, in the back of her mind, rang like a siren. Her hands involuntarily clenched before she forced them to open, clapped her knees and chuckled as she stood.

"Just thinking about food. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

There it was, the slight grimace of Hermione's face as her natural voice rang out clear and dual. From the shaded corner, she could likely only see Harriet's vague form, and with her strange voice, lapping, raspy, deep and twin, like two voices speaking at once, she now knew Harriet had taken off all the concealment and transfiguration charms she normally wore. While on the run, out of sight, Harriet had taken to leaving them off, if only to keep her magic replenished should they blunder into another fight with the snatchers lurking in this forest.

If it wasn't for the incessant hunger that was currently gnawing on Harriet's intestines, maybe the reaction would have hurt more, but as she was, quite literally, starving, the hunger eating at her was one of the only things she could focus on. In a poor attempt to hide her instinctual reaction, Hermione, Merlin bless her, tried to play it off as a joke, skirting out of the way as Harriet slipped through the door and into the almost blinding daylight.

"You must be on a growth spurt. All you want to do lately is eat. Soon, you'll give Ron a run for his money."

Now it was Harriet's turn to wince. Maybe it was from the light scorching her eyes, or from the unintentional jab at Ron's own appetite. Most likely, it was due to the fact that yes, Hermione was right, all Harriet wanted to do was eat and feast and-… Fuck. She was so bloody hungry. But she shouldn't be focused on that hunger. That shouldn't be all she wanted to do, think about, dream of. She had a war to win, Horcruxes to find and friends to protect. Even then, standing next to her, as she spoke one thing, Hermione meant another.

Harriet could feel it, the worry, the uncertainty simmering underneath her words. She was concerned too. Harriet had already ate through their rations three times, stopped an extra four in the local markets to get more food and, rightly, she was putting them all at risk because she couldn't bloody stop the hunger, no matter how much she ate. Most painfully, Harriet could feel the bite of resentment sitting in Hermione's sternum, a pit in the juicy peach, the sting of capped fury. She thought Harriet was wasting time. Her focus on less pressing matters… She thought Harriet was being selfish.

Harriet's sharp tooth pierced her cheek as her jaw clenched. Her blood tasted briny and smooth, but bitter, like glass dipped in the sea and spritzed with lemon. Hermione fell back a step, eyes falling to the floor as she realized what Harriet had picked up from her mind. Brokenly, Harriet took in a quivering breath through her nose, holding it in her chest, feeling it roll in her lungs before gently letting it out. It wasn't Hermione's fault.

They were all tired. Dirty. Hungry. Their insurmountable task set by Dumbledore was weighing heavily on them all. Perhaps Hermione didn't mean it. Perhaps Harriet was being selfish. In the grand scheme of things, none of it mattered. They needed to keep attentive, not squabble over playground arguments like first years, as much as Harri wanted to reach back and punch her for even thinking anyone, any god forsaken person in this retched place was selfish, that it was her of all people. Anger would get them nowhere, and this is exactly what Tom wanted, them apart and alone, easily defeated. Still, Harriet couldn't focus with her stomach twisting itself into a tangled knot of torturous pain and aching want. Hermione sighed and, almost apologetically, softly, placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tight.

"Pull up your human face and we'll nip into the local village. Ron will be up for a little shop raid anyway."

Harriet bit back the bark of no. She didn't want to pretend anymore. She didn't want to wear that face that was so tight, restrictive, the chains dragging her under. Why was she the one who had to keep pretending to be something she wasn't? Why didn't Hermione and Ron ever have to pretend to be like her? Why was it, through everything, it was always her that had to give up little parts of herself to fit in? No doubt, Hermione just wanted Harriet to look human again, to ease her own cautionary reaction, because, really, they could go into the village under the cloak or a notice-me-not charm. They were never going to accept her. Never. Not fully. She should leave. Now. Find food and-

Harriet shook her head violently as her hand snapped up to the locket dangling from her chest. Her long fingers bruisingly tightened around the frigid metal. Not today Tom. He wouldn't get into her head today. With a mental push, that insidious, foul dankness shirked itself from her mind, slithering back into the hell it came from. The locket. As the best at Legilimency and Occlumency, it was up to Harriet to handle the Horcruxes, to keep them on her before they destroyed them on mass before the final battle, but this hunger was making it harder to concentrate on keeping Tom's shards out. If they had to share the Horcruxes, no doubt either Ron or Hermione would have stormed off by now. Frankly, Harriet's money would have been on Ron, after being goaded by Hermione in some form. Merlin knew he was never any good at controlling his feelings-

She needed the hunger to stop. The marks on her palm trembled, stretching and rippling, and Harriet's fingers curled as her gaze unwittingly fluttered to Hermione's chest. She thought she could see something glowing there, a light, hot, fresh... Juicy... Harriet clenched her eyes shut, scrubbed at them, and once she opened them again, the light was gone. She couldn't keep track of her own thoughts anymore. One thought bled into another and that into another, dragging her down and before she knew it, she was forgetting what she was meant to be saying or doing. Food. They were going to get food. Harry grinned, or tried to through the ache in her body, pulled her wand free and cast the illusion spell Dumbledore had taught her on her very first night at Hogwarts, so she could finally venture out into the real world, be amongst people and not locked in a bloody closet. Soon, her skin bled to pink, her cheek gashes merged into smooth skin, her nose became more defined, brow hairs sloping over her hooded eyes, her pupils ballooned to little balls instead of slits, and her white hair darkened to black curls. There she was. Human Harriet. Another lie. Another shard. Another mask. Everything tasted bitter, like her blood.

Hermione smiled brightly at the sight and a little part of Harri withered at the reaction. She never grinned at Harriet like that when she was wearing her true face. Not once. Neither did Ron or Molly, Ginny or Arthur. The only one to ever treat her the same in disguise or not had been Sirius and he was… He was gone. Would she have had more smiles such as these if she were like them? Human? Would life be easier with pink skin and red blood not given through spells? Would Petunia or Vernon treated her better if she looked not so monstrous?

No. Not now. First, she would get food, hopefully satisfy this hunger that had slowly but surely began to completely seize her over the last fortnight, and then she would begin to hunt the Horcruxes again. In war, no one had the privilege of letting inane questions cloud their mind, least of all the-girl-who-lived.

* * *

 **What do you think?**

A.N: I'm taking heavy inspiration from the book series Legacy from the Stargate franchise. However, for those who know nothing about Stargate Atlantis, or the books, fear not, I'll be heading through with Harriet to hopefully path some ground for those readers new to this fandom. For those who do know Stargate Atlantis and the books, I hope I do the characters and plots justice! However, just some heads up, Harriet, in this, does gradually grow into a darker person than Canon. I prefer my protagonist like my coffee, black with no sugar ;), but it will be a gradual process. This fic will also be deep diving into Wraith civilization, history, and most importantly, culture with my own little zest added in. For those of you who do not like it, this is a **_Harry/multi_** fic. That means more than one partner. Plus, they're Wraith (Including alien anatomy), so if that makes you squimish or queezy, turn back now. That all said, I really hope you liked this little taster, poor pun intended, and are looking forward to the rest. If you have a moment, please drop a review. Until next time, have a great day!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER I: NOT ENOUGH.**

Todd's P.O.V

Todd had not always been in this cell, and he wouldn't always _be_ in this cell. He knew that as deeply as he knew his own name. One day, tomorrow, in a cycle, he would be free once more. Until then, all he had to keep him sane, to stave off the hunger from finally consuming his mind, between the little half feedings of political enemies Koyla would throw into his cage, was his memories. In luck, with his immense age, he had his fair share of them. Unfortunately, most were not entirely pleasant to dwell too long on.

After the war, where the Lanteans destroyed their own head city, Atlantis, and in so what remained of themselves, Todd had earned his place amongst the high echelons of Wraith society. He had proven himself capable in many ways during the closing stages of the great war. Espionage. Tactics. Covert missions. Each win under his name had earned him further privileges amongst his people. Concessions he didn't let go to waste. By barely a century old, Todd had earned his spot as fourth commander aboard a hive queens ship, unprecedented by his young age.

Of course, war drew blood, and Todd's first hive ship, that of his motem's, or mothers, was not exempt. His sire, a consort of his motem's from the science caste, had died in the bowels of the ship when their hive had been attacked in subspace, after a rupture to his lab broke the hull of the lower decks. His motem, the Queen, had died how she had lived, on her throne, proud, imperious and cold as she stared defiantly out the viewscreen to the fleet of Lantean ships, ordering her higher commanders to keep their attention as the younger Wraith were charged to flee in the escape pods, Todd included.

He had lost seven brothers that day and one sister. His only sister, in truth. Scarcely a year old… Still, his comrade, a Wraith from the strategy division on the hive ship, a fellow with a slow warmth to him, humble and flickering but strong, Ember, had managed to escape and rendezvoused with him on the closest gated planet. It was through him that Todd had entered into his second service to a Queen, his second ship and, there, where he gained most of his honours and titles.

He would admit, when the new hive ship had come to collect him and the other escapees after Ember finally managed contacted his own Sire who was aboard the ship, Todd had been… Less than impressed. The hive ship itself was slight, in disrepair, hazardous and clunky. Most systems aboard were outdated, underrun and one even had a Lantean virus transmitting critical information. The crew left much to be desired, their science subdivision almost none existent, their drones limited with no drone facilities to create more, and there were only two commanders stationed aboard.

Then he met their queen in the main atrium and as he saw her in the low light, shadows eating her small form, fidgeting on her throne, unable to keep still, but with such fire in her eyes, he understood. She was young, too young to be a queen, around his own age. In all likely hood, she was a survivor of her own motem's and sires destruction, left with the dregs of their wrecked ship and demolished crew, ordered to fight because the war was in full swing and they couldn't risk a retreat from their offensive currently.

Upon seeing such a young, twitchy, headstrong Queen, Todd had originally planned to recuperate on board and after, to go and commandeer a dart to find a proper hive to serve at the earliest convenience. The crew was small, injured, old and weak. The ship was a mess, more ruins than weapon. And the queen, well, she was undeveloped, naive, he could see it in how she held herself, the dashing glances to her first commander, almost as if she… _She_ was looking for permission or guidance and, really, to Todd, as he stood with the rest of his own surviving crew, starving and hurt, it was only a matter of time before they would all die if none of them left. Then she greeted them.

As was customary in greeting, she opened up, felt them out, allowed them to feel her and her hive in turn. It was that day Todd realized that their telepathy proved far more inspiring and momentous than any spoken, written or recorded word. It saw beyond what eyes could, beyond skin and bone and marrow. It tasted everything, from breath to soul. It heard more than imagination, every unspoken thought, every flicker of an emotion, every deepest secret.

 _He saw her._

She was young but she was strong, so very strong, firm and wintry. She was twitchy because she was a being of action, not of ritual or politics or tradition. She felt like hurricane wind blowing, stout, persistent, unrelenting, cutting. Her presence in his mind felt like a snow drift, gradually encasing, seeping into skin and cloth and freezing itself to flesh and nerve until, by the end, he wasn't quite sure where his thoughts began and hers finished, linear, alike, swallowed in white. Staring up at her, this small Wraith with red hair and frail wrists, he thought he might have seen a Queen he could follow into death peacefully. When her blazing gaze settled upon his own, his decision had been made.

And so, he stayed. He stayed and together, he and her, her and he, proved to be a force to be reckoned with. Time and time again, they entered the front lines, they delved into enemy territory, they fought and schemed and won. His intelligence and forethought advanced their strategy and tactics, her sure hand and quick knife brought victory sooner than expected and together, they balanced one another out.

As the years passed, Todd became a Wraith renowned by his own name and wit, A first commander by his second century, a name you only spoke or called in adulation or cry of triumph. She became a sovereign above Queens, a leader of war, a voice not taken lightly, even against rival hives. When their hive ship appeared on the battle skies, the Lanteans would withdraw. In those years, their achievements became something of legend, even amid their own kind. Nonetheless, the more prestige they earnt, the bigger the target they painted on their hull for the Lanteans to take aim at. In the end, it wasn't enough.

* * *

Hermione's P.O.V

"Harriet Potter is dead!"

Voldemort cried out into the frigid air just as Hermione's knees gave out from under her, shins unforgivingly crashing into the rubble around them. She could feel Ron beside her, grasping at her arms, trying to heave her back to her feet, but she couldn't stand, couldn't breathe, couldn't look away. There, in the arms of the most monstrous man ever birthed, was her best friend. Harri. Limp, cold, slit eyes unfocused, her corpse was unceremoniously thrown down between his men and theirs, in what once was the great courtyard of Hogwarts. Harri's body rolled, cracking into a half-demolished pillar, staring dead… dead. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. _It should have been enough._

Their people were going to speak of this war for centuries to come, Hermione was sure. More succinctly, they would speak of Harriet for many more. Perhaps Tom had really chosen the wrong child that night, or at least, she had thought so. All that Hermione knew was, despite what she was or wasn't, creature or not, Harriet had almost seemed bred for war. She was swift in her exploits, as fast, precise and keen as a throwing knife, but never lacked consideration or careful planning. _It should have been enough._

She almost instinctively knew, or perhaps she did know with her telepathy, how to keep Voldemort and the Deatheaters on the rope, hitting raids and meetings with agility that left them scrambling after her. She crippled their movements, destroying their vaults in Gringotts bank, burning down Malfoy manor on their escape, hitting their ancestral homes to, nearly pridefully, prove there wasn't a place or city out of her reach. She diverted their attention from the Order, garnering their steady gazes by making random appearances to draw their numbers to her while Order members took out straggling Deatheaters laying low or biding their time, and in turn, the Order shielded her while she hunted the Horcruxes. Slowly but surely, Harriet, over the last year, had chipped away at Voldemort's defences, at his men, his money, his standing, his power. _It should have been enough._

Yet, Voldemort had kept toe to toe with her as he too struck back viciously. They lost many good men and women. Sirius. Dobby. Aberforth. Figg. Moody. Bill's wife, Fleur. Gone. With the ministry in Tom's grasp, he ran her name through the ringer, smearing all and any who so much as whispered it, her face a prominent part of the Daily Prophet papers these days with derisive propaganda telling of the many horrors the undesirable number one had committed on the innocent public. Lies. He personally attacked her will, burning down what was left of Godric's Hollow, decimating the graveyard where her mother and father were buried, and only last week had the Prophet ran a story about Sirius Black's long list of perceived crimes and 'testimonials' of what a depraved monster the man had been, a story that had left Harriet setting the paper on fire and storming out of the tent. _It should have been enough._

However, in a way, it had only made Harriet stronger. Each blow was another reason to fight. Each loss was another reason to keep going. Each slander and curse thrown her way was just another reason to end this madness. And end it she was… Until about a month ago. Hermione didn't know what had changed, Harriet had just discovered where last Horcrux was, the diadem, and was planning to retrieve it, leaving Nagini to last when they met Tom on the battle field once more, and now, on the shores of something great, when all this bloodshed and fear could be over, something seriously wrong had begun to chip away at her friend. _It should have been enough._

At first, Hermione had just believed it to be the war getting to her. Harriet was angsty, always pacing, snapping at even the smallest of comments, glaring at anything that so much as moved in her general direction, stubbornly adamant about leaving her transfiguration and concealment charms down. Hermione could still hear her now, echoing in her mind… _If I'm going to fuckin' die Hermione, I'll do it as myself and nothing else!_ And she ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. There was no other way to describe it. Any small rations they managed to acquire during raids or the odd recon into a city were soon, if not immediately, lost upon return. She bit, and tore, and chewed and gorged, and when the rations were gone, nothing but empty boxes and shiny wrappers, Hermione had caught Harriet eating bloody raw fish she had snatched out of a nearby river. _It should have been enough._

If that wasn't worrying enough, her friend, her odd, strange, recently ravenous friend, had begun to whither right before their eyes. Her cheeks became gaunt dips, her lips cracked and bleeding, fingers and wrists fragile and thin. The clothes she wore grew baggier each day, she began to weave bandages around the palms of her hands, ripped cotton, scraps of silk, anything to cover her hands, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do. Harriet wouldn't speak to them. No. She hardly let them near her. Not after what happened with Ron. _It should have been enough._

Merlin knew how the argument started, but Hermione had walked in on the tail end, and really, she was glad she had. Ron had said something, Hermione had caught Sirius's name, and before she could cut in, Harriet had raised her hand, as if to smack him, or shove him in the chest. There was something terribly dark in her friends cat-like eyes in that moment, sharp and sinister and unnameable and, even thinking of that keen glance, sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. Only Hermione's alarmed cry of her name had stalled Harriet enough to bring her tumbling back to herself. When she did, she, yet again, said nothing. She stared at Ron, at her hand, and then silently, like a phantom, prowled out of the tent without a backward glance. _It should have been enough._

When the time of the final battle rolled around, what had once been her tall, sleek, strong friend was something withered and dry. In full honesty, Harriet had looked like a walking corpse, her breath rattling, ribs prominent, sockets sunken and blackened. When they had finally figured out what Dumbledore's plan had been, what it meant, Harriet's true role, Hermione thought, she really did, Harriet was sort of glad to be done with it, to finally get away from whatever was slowly eating away at her. That being said, even if Hermione knew her friend, as she left them in the chamber of secrets, was walking to her death with her head held high, seeing the end result was nothing short of devastating. In the end, Harriet's fight, her raging fire, her pain and loss… _It had not been enough_.

"I bring before you, your hero! In so, I bring to light the greatest deception! This girl… This thing was never one of us! Look at it! Truly look and see the hollow husk which has blinded you all!"

Voldemort addressed them. From the crowd around them, battle worn and weary, bloodied and scarred, Hermione could hear her people mutter and gasp as they gawked and crooned at Harriet's body. She understood their shock, she truly did, Harri… She wasn't human. Her face, herself, was something other, and even after years of being her friend, a real companion, Hermione herself still had trouble gazing at that alien face. She could never quite stop the flinch that came. However, Hermione could also hate them, these people, for their reaction, as hypercritical as it could be in some light. How much more could Harriet have given them? How much more could they possibly want from one single person? Did her appearance matter so much? Merlin… Her friend… Her friend was gone… No matter what Harriet gave, how much she sacrificed, it would never be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

"Transformed, hidden, painted human but nothing of the sort. This is your hero! You have all been tricked! This is nothing but the work of biological transfiguration worn out. This is the creature Albus Dumbledore would have had you follow! I, however, cast it out for _our_ betterment."

Hermione's jaw clenched at the wave of cheers from the Deatheaters at Voldemorts back, as the snake like man, who had the bloody audacity for calling Harriet a creature, a monster, when he looked as he did, stepped forward, clasping his hands, smiling that awful, dreadful smile.

"I will show you mercy for this deception. How could you know the truth when I have only just seen the light? For this, I will give you all one chance, and one chance only. Declare yourself! Join me now! Step forth and take your rightful place in the new world… Or die."

Silence. Deafening, indissoluble silence fell down upon them like a wave crashing upon a craggy shore. Minutes, hours, days could have passed for all Hermione knew, for, she, still huddled on the ground, staring at her dead friend, could only see the smile frozen in death on her face. Wherever Harriet was now, wherever souls went, Hermione hoped she had found her peace, away from the pain and anger and hunger. From a few feet away from her, Neville Longbottom stepped out from their side, across the court yard hewn in ruin and dust and death. The Deatheaters laughed, high and keening, and still, Neville stepped forward, head held high.

"Harry may not have been one of us. Not bodily, at least. She may not have been human. Not in face. But she had more heart and more soul than anyone else I ever knew. She didn't die in vain… But you will. It's not over!"

It was only then that Hermione noticed the dusty rag clutched tightly in Neville's bloodied fist. The sorting hat. Delving his hand into the mouth of it, he pulled free Godric Gryffindor's sword and, just like that, Harriet's eyes blinked. Mayhem broke out as the corpse, her dead friend who wasn't so dead after all, leapt up, Neville running for Nagini, sword raised, swinging, scaled head rolling. Voldemort screamed, in anger or pain, Hermione couldn't tell, but she did think there was fear in his horrific red gaze as Harriet jumped towards him, hand raised, fingers splayed, palm open and flat.

There was no exchange of spells, Harriet was too fast. She barrelled into him, her hand came slamming down upon his chest, fingers clawing in, and, Merlin, Hermione would never forget the scream, pitched and wailing, Voldemort gave as he fell to his own knees, scrabbling for Harriet's hand. Hermione would never forget the animalistic growl Harriet gave. Hermione would never forget seeing Voldemort, bowed and broken, shrivelling right before her eyes as if he was aging centuries in seconds. She would never forget Harriet filling out, cheeks puffing, sockets becoming unsunk, fattening, getting stronger, and there, right there, as Voldemort turned to ash that fluttering away in the wind, was her old friend before the hunger came and ruined her.

Most importantly, Hermione would never forget, until her dying day, the gleam in Harriet's eyes as her attention turned towards the Deatheaters shocked to stone and silence. They way she growled, the screams, the bedlam unleashed as Harriet feasted. And feast she did. Another and another fell and no spell, no plea for her to stop, worked. In the end, it took seven Order members to down her long enough to drag her away, and even then, Hermione thought, Harriet had gone willingly because, well, she was _full_. By the dawning of the new day, the new age of Wizarding kind, Hermione Granger came to realise that no, it had not been enough. Harriet Potter had not been enough.

She had been too much.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** We learn more of Todd and the Queen, and the Wizengamot tries to figure out exactly what Harriet is, and what to do with something like her...

* * *

 **NOTE:** So, it's been a couple of months since my last update. I really am sorry for that. Other muses came and sort of diverted my attention for a little while, but I have been working on this fic in bits and pieces and, well, here's chapter two! I have most of the next three chapter's already written up too, just needing a little fix here and there, and hopefully, the updates wont be months apart again.

I just want to give a big **thank you** to everyone who reviewed! Your lovely words kept pulling me back to this fic and I hope you liked this chapter. A big thank you too to those who followed and favourited. If you have a spare moment, drop a review.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER II: TWENTY-THREE.**

* * *

Todd's P.O.V

Todd had been prisoner for twenty-three months now, if his way of tracking time in this ageless cage was adequate. That number sat ill with him for many reasons. Firstly, twenty-three months as prisoner to these humans that called themselves Genii was, in fact, quite the blow to his already wounded pride. Secondly, twenty-three months was an awfully long time to be separated from a hive mind, washed away from the comforts of others buffering against his conscious, locked out from communal congregation of thought and feeling melding into one. Outside existence as he knew it to be.

If this is how the humans felt consistently, unfearingly, he wondered why they had not ended their pitiful existence as soon as possible. The silence alone was enough to drive even the strongest of Wraiths to insanity. And the loneliness… Such miserable, isolated, soundless lives they must live. And what a miserable, isolated, soundless existence he currently slaked out too. Lastly, twenty-three, the number, marked a very singular landmark in Todd's life. It represented the day he sired his own offspring.

Todd's rise to the position of Consort, the highest position a male Wraith could hold, upon his Queen's ship had been an almost assured happenstance. It had been a slow but steady climb, one no other saw surprising, least of all himself. Nevertheless, what had been rather surprising had been the Queen's, his Queen's, resolve to take _only_ one. Him. Female Wraith were low in numbers, equalling their male foils one to thirty, and the ritual of, what a human would call, polyandry, was common practice within his people. Not only was it common practice, it ensured their species survival, widening the genetic gene pool and assuring most, if not all, Wraith carried their bloodlines forth. It would do no good to fall into the many problematic issues of inbreeding.

It was not a peculiarity for a female Wraith to take ten Consorts at any one given time, to swap out ones that did not… Please her, females of their species had an almost ravenous libido, and Todd himself had heard stories of a fringe hive Queen who had taken seventeen Consorts in a time of war. For a Queen to take only one, at any other time, in any other place, would have caused an uprising of devastating consequence, as males under her sovereignty would have felt slighted, their familial lines ended in one choice, no chance of climbing the social ladder. Yet, his peculiar position had not been at any time, in any place, with any Queen.

No, his elevation, if you wished to call it such, came on the tail end of their victory against the Asurans. Another mess the Lanteans had left for the Wraith to clean up. Robotic life that spread like a virus through the galaxy, corrupting and killing anything that could not be integrated. The Asurans had attacked after the fall of the Lanteans, thinking the Wraith weak and injured after the final battle. Fools. Todd supposed that their futility as a food source, being technological and not organic, had also turned the Wraith's attention to more of an antagonistic execution from idle annoyance.

Still, the Asurans had proved to be rather… Tenacious. Todd would allow them that much praise, and soon after their first assault on outlying hives, they launched a full-scale strike on every hive, planet and system, belonging to the Wraith, that they could reach. A rather doggish clash followed, one that had nearly wiped the entire Wraith species from this plain of existence. Asurans, if not destroyed to the very nanite, could replicate itself once more within hours, and they duplicated with speeds almost dizzying. Yes, during that time, facing against such odds, Todd had almost wished for the Lanteans back.

 _Almost_.

Nonetheless, the Wraith, with their ingenuity and creativity, something the Asurans lacked, finally managed to push back, and system by system, the Asurans had been cleansed from their galaxy. He had led the vanguard on the final assault himself and had succeeded. Upon returning triumphant to the planet his hive had landed and embedded in to rest for a cycle, he had swiftly ascended to Consort to his Queen. In the end, he had proven himself to be the strongest, the smartest, and the most resilient of Wraith, all traits often sort out by female Wraith for Consorts.

A week after his return, she, his Queen of snow, had taken him to bed. Todd chuckled. He had not left that bed for a fortnight straight, and here, in this prison cell, he found himself often drifting back to that languid time. Twenty-three months later, on the twenty-third day, he begot his offspring. Todd would not lie, as the offspring grew in his Queen, hidden and safe from the world, he had felt… Nothing. His own Motem had described love and adoration, his own sire had spoken of boundless pride. When first being informed of his Queen's condition, he had thought he too would be struck by such feelings. He had not.

His Queen had been protective beyond logic of her condition, going to such, what he thought at the time, absurd lengths for even the tiniest of things, to certify health of the offspring. She would talk to him, as their kind talked, assuring him this offspring was different, it was _special_. So very special. This offspring was to be birthed with a hurricane inside, she would tell him. A hurricane that would blow all else away and light up the future of their species. No other like it had come before, and so, it needed to be protected above all. Todd had thought, naively, that his Queen might have been suffering from some sort of mental ailment in those days. He would never, until his dying day, forgive himself for thinking such.

However, as the child swelled, rounded, Todd had only felt annoyance. With his Queen in such a position, their hives activity had to be limited, their hive embedding in a planet far too long for his liking, and she was at risk of attack from such confines. And being stagnant, in any form, had never sat well with Todd. When his Queen began to speak of nothing but the offspring, having established a telepathic bond from conception through their close proximity, he found himself leaving their chambers swiftly. When his Queen had told him she was carrying a female, a joyous moment for any Wraith, with their females so low in number, an honour to him for siring one, and a festive time for all in their hive, Todd had felt hollow.

And then came the Ark-mun-shi, or, in the human tongue, the Recognition. As was tradition, when a Wraith was born, the offspring was laid inside a pod, where it would await their Sire's touch. Young Wraith, especially those just birthed, were weak, their telepathy hardly above that of a human, and so, it often needed the aid of touch to be telepathically connected with, to help connect it to the hive.

The Sire of the offspring was always the first to hold the newly birthed Wraith, and was always the first to instigate this bond. After the bond was formed, the Sire would give the offspring their name. In so, the Sire recognized the Offspring as their own, pledged to do as a Sire should, and offered life in their first feeding.

On that day, Todd had gone through the motions, knowing through their own bond that his Queen had given birth. He had cleansed himself. Dressed accordingly. Fed. And felt nothing. Walking into that empty chamber, his Queen waiting outside for him to bring the offspring to her after the Ark-mun-shi, he had acted not like a Sire, but that of a soldier doing their duty. He had thought he would walk in, create the bond, feed the offspring, handover the offspring to his Queen and leave, where then he would go back to work, not to be bothered again. Done.

But then he had seen the child.

Marching over to the pod standing isolated in the middle of the dim chamber, Todd had entered the code to open the organic netting, and as the spiderweb peeled back, he had stalled. He had not expected her to look so much like him. Females often took colour to their hair, reds, blacks, browns, but she, this tiny, _tiny_ being, had a head full of white curl. He had not expected her to be so small, so delicate looking either. So squishy looking. Soft. And her eyes…

Within a race that was predominately telepathic, something as inconsequential as eye contact was a form of communication not often employed by their kind. It seemed arbitrary. Why focus on ones eyes when their mind was already open? But standing there, looming over his daughter, he thought he understood then the temptation of it. Her eyes were large, lustrous yellow, not like the mottled yellows and greens of others he knew, and so very much a reflection of his own. And they were staring, almost daringly, right up at him unblinkingly. There had been no fear there.

He had reached into the pod then, lifted her up into his arms, _she was so small,_ he would always remember how small she had been, how rightly she had fit into his hands, and he had _felt_ her. Bright, blistering, she was exactly as his Queen had said. A Hurricane, strong, winds raging, a storm swirling and at the eye, the centre… There was something _new_. An energy of some kind, hotter than a supernova sun, deep, unbreakable, it curled around the corners of his mind and burned itself, its impression, right there. He could see it inside her, like roots, squirming, alive, a part of her and also other, imbedding and mixing.

Right then he knew she was special. She would accomplish so many things. She was a leader, he could feel, as dedicated and ruthless as her Motem, but, right in the crux of that, he could feel the pip of curiosity, _his_ curiosity, which would lead her to asking the right questions at the right time.

Most importantly, Todd got the chance to feel what his Queen had felt since her conception, now that he too could feel their daughter telepathically. This offspring was _his_ , truly his, and the hollowness was gone. This was his daughter. His. The realisation struck fast and hit hard. He had not realised that he had not thought this all real until then. But it was. It was so very real, and he had an offspring, a daughter…

There was so much to this small offspring, depths unseen, abilities unknown, secrets that were to be given in surprise. Primarily, in the eyes of this small child, Todd had found something he had never felt before, not even to his Queen he knew now… Love. Unconditional, endless, sweeping love. There would be nothing, nothing at all, he would not give to this offspring, should she need it.

And as he felt her, as he pushed his own essence out, wrapped it around the babe, heard her gurgle in response to the new, strange feeling, as her own warmth mingled with his own, bonding, he gave her her name.

 _Gift._

Resplendent inside and out. Gift, daughter of Guide. Yes, he thought it had a nice ring to it.

After he gave her the gift of life for her first feeding, tradition once again, even if she would not need to feed for another sixteen years, he needed to solidify the bond, he did not hand her over to his Queen. He stayed right by their side, daughter in arm, and he thought of the life in front of them. One day, his daughter would have her own hive ship, be a Queen, and he would be there to see her through it, teach her, show her their ways, as his Sire taught him, and, in that moment, the future had been so bright.

Unfortunately, it had not stayed that way. An Asuran outpost, hidden from Wraith scanners, had launched an attack a month later, on the very planet his hive was stationed. It was fast, proficient, and it had taken everything Todd had held dear. His Queen had been killed in the initial onslaught, the bridge, which was where she was, bombed to nothing but ash within seconds. He remembered the exact moment their bond snapped in his mind, a broken tether left aflame, gone.

It never healed.

The West deck had been next, and their hive had been too late in lifting up, flying, deploying their darts. In the chaos that had ensued, Todd had managed to get Gift to a life pod, along with the other children from the nursery, twelve in total, and as their darts manoeuvred to draw attention from the Asurans, so the life pods could escape, it had been the hardest moment of his life. To put his daughter in a pod, to shut it, not knowing if he would see her again, though knowing if she stayed, she would die, was not a choice he would wish upon any other Wraith.

Setting the pods to aim back at the planet they were orbiting, somewhere after the battle they could reach quickly to retrieve all the offspring, Todd had not given a goodbye to his daughter, thinking, within hours, he would have her back. How very wrong he had been. Oh, the pods had deployed safely, the darts had done their job at drawing the Asurans eye, and his hive had barely managed to push the Asurans into a retreat, but the loss had been monumental. Their ship had been demolished, it would take months to repair, their Queen was gone… His Queen, gone, just like that, and though he did not love her as he loved his daughter, he was fond of her, devoted, and that…

Limping back to the planet, what was left of their hive, paltry numbers, had scanned for the life pods of their offspring jettisoned to safety. They had found eleven. Retrieving them, one by one, dread, another new feeling to Todd, took a hold of him unapologetically. None were Gift. When he left the hive to travel to the place the life pods had landed, his dread malformed to terror. The area in which the life pods had landed were right next to a Stargate.

A Stargate with a recent activation.

At the right angle, at the right speed, Gift's pod could have very well slipped into the open Stargate as it hurtled to the planet, landing, skidding from impact. Her pod was gone. Todd, of course, did what any Sire would do. He left what little remained of his hive, most Wraith having already left to find other hives to join, and, distraught, battered, ally-less, Todd began to search.

It was on the fifth planet he had investigated where the Genii had captured him. And so, here he was, twenty-three months later, hive-less, no Queen, his offspring, _his Gift,_ out there somewhere, alone, cut off, lost to him. He swore to himself it would not be so forever. Eventually, he would leave this place, continue his search, find her, find Gift, and, together, a new hive would be formed.

Unbeknownst to Todd, he would not find Gift, and he would not leave those chains behind for many years. Gift would find him, in that very cell, seventeen years after she had disappeared, when she and a human called Sheppard were unceremoniously thrown into his neighbouring cell.

* * *

Hermione Granger's P.O.V

In the very bowels of the Ministry of Magic, locked away in a shadowed, dingy chamber, was Hermione Granger's dearest friend, Harriet Potter. She looked worse for wear; Hermione would admit. But, then again, Harry had been sealed inside for a whole month while the Ministry tried to decide what to do with her. That sort of… Confinement, if such a loose word could fit this situation, would take its toll on anybody, including those with Harriet's particular genetics. Still, seeing Harry as such, white hair unkempt and knotted, loose and falling around her in heaps, curtaining off her face, thick metal collar, runes etched onto it brutally, chain leading like a leash to the floor, others around her ankles, broke Hermione's heart.

How did it all come to this?

Well, Hermione knew the logistics of what happened. She had been present for it, after all. Nevertheless, one glimpse at the cast iron gloves encapsulating Harry's hands, big, loathsome things of black metal and strong magic, sent Hermione's heartbeat just a fraction faster as she came to a sorrowful understanding of _why_ the Ministry had reacted as they had. What Harry had done… What those dreadful hands were capable of… The ruin and destruction they could bring…

Yes, Hermione could understand the Ministry to some degree, and she could also hurt for her friend simultaneously. Harry's glamours were off, stripped, and through the low light of the room, the only source a tiny rectangular window high above the wall, lit Harry's pale green skin to an arctic snowfall and her salt white hair to ash grey, grimy and dirty and tangled. From the slither of her face that Hermione could see from her sitting, bent position, she saw the slit in Harry's cheek expand a fraction, and, belatedly, Hermione realised Harry was _smelling_ her from all the way across the damp chamber.

"Come to laugh? Jeer? Perhaps throw a punch or two? You're not the first. Although, what's that I smell?"

With the glamours down, Harry's voice was back to that double-edged trill, horrid and terrifyingly wrong in all the right places, and Hermione couldn't decide what was worse. The voice, or those iridescent yellow cat-eyes as the one she could see darted up, locking right onto her with a sort of predatory glint. If the hair on the back of her neck rose, if there was a slight tremble to her fingers as she fisted her hands, and if Hermione braced her feet to run, she would always blame evolutionary instincts. There was just something fundamentally wrong with being next to something that _ate_ your kind.

"Fear? Are you scared of me too, Hermione?"

Harry was looking up now, away from the floor, face free from hair, and Hermione could see the blood-stained rags Harry was in. The very clothes she had been in during the Battle of Hogwarts. The Ministry mustn't have let her change or changed her themselves. A big part of Hermione, the one who fought for house Elf rights, railed against this tid-bit of knowledge. Yet, neither could Hermione deny that a small part of her, however small it might have been, sympathised, and perhaps joined in, with their choice. If Harry were to change clothes, those hand cages must come off, and with them off, just a second…

Hermione had seen how fast Harry could be. They all had. One second she had been there, sucking someone dry, hand wrapped into their chest, snarling. The next they were husks, shrivelled and dry, falling to the floor in plumes of dust, and then a blink later, Harry was on the next screaming person. And Hermione could see all that now, right now. The flash of white. The agonising cries of the people who were drained. The shouts as people tried to run in every which way, pushing each other, scrambling like spiders around a drain hole. The burst of spells being fired at Harry's back, only making her angrier, faster.

Hermione's hand crept up to her chest, over her breast, to rub at her shoulder. Hermione still had a green and yellow bruise there, partially healed, from when she had gotten to Harry, tried to drag her off some Deatheater, and all Harry had done, like batting away a fly, was swing her pale arm back and Hermione had gone sailing over the rubble. Yes, Harry was fast _and_ strong, and coupled with those terrifying hands, well, Hermione thought that that combination would put any sane person on edge.

Yet, through those disturbing memories, Hermione could see _Harry,_ and that was why she wasn't running for the door. Hermione remembered Harry laughing, bright and light, over a wizarding chessboard with Ron opposite her. Hermione remembered the dimpled grin, lopsided, as she crammed another treacle tart in her mouth. She remembered the jokes and love and laughter and… Those two beings, Harry who laughed and joked, who always ate too many sweets and who was always the first to offer a hug, couldn't match, in Hermione's mind, with the Harry who had swept through and devoured Deatheaters like a biblical plague.

"You killed twenty-three people, Harry. Twenty-three. Just like that. You _ate_ them. Can you blame me for being on edge?"

Something dark fluttered across Harry's face, a flash of shadow, and, in the dim light, Hermione thought it might have looked a smidge like remorse. It was gone before it was ever really there. Maybe, just Maybe… Maybe Harry was fighting with what she did too. Merlin knew what Harry was feeling or thinking, she had never been the easiest of books to read, and Hermione had never thought, not since that day, of what all this meant _to_ Harry.

Had it been premeditated? Or had she snapped? The last straw on the camels back? Had it been planned, or an act carried out in instinct? Either way, as a growl took up in the air, hot and heavy, Harry evidently wasn't going to be telling Hermione any of these answers any time soon.

"And what where those twenty-three people? Rapists? Torturers? Murderers? What makes their life more important than my own?"

So, Harry had thought her life was on the line? Had it been so? Hermione knew she had been hungry for months before, nothing had ever filled her, _nothing_ , and if this was true, if Harry needed to… To… To feed on… People, Hermione could hardly finish the thought, to live, then how could Hermione condemn her? It would be like condemning an orca for doing what it did naturally, hunting seals. Nevertheless, Harry had something the orca didn't. Sentiency on a human level.

Harry knew, she had to, what she was taking, what she was doing, to people with the same awareness, intelligence and feelings as herself, and there was an unpleasant sort of cannibalistic thread to it all. The food-chain under microscope. Harry should have just let the hunger grow, let it consume her, die and-… And Hermione was no different from Albus Dumbledore. He had done much the same, left a child in neglect and abuse, so when at the right age, it might sacrifice itself for the betterment of people who would never do the same for that child. That was what Harry's life was.

Sacrifice with no reward.

Merlin, it was all so fucking confusing. This was her friend. Her friend who had _ate_ twenty-three people. This was the girl-who-lived who had, in the end, forfeited herself to ensure others survived. The girl-who-lived to jump up and consume twenty-three people to ensure her own survival. This was Harry, the girl who time traveled and risked everything to save a Griffin. This was also the girl who had snarled in joy as people turned to mummies under her palm.

Somehow, some way, those two people were the _same_ girl and Hermione couldn't wrap her head around it. It left her unbalanced, dizzy, slightly sick. Hermione needed to understand. She needed Harry to look at her and explain how those two, so very different beings, could inhabit the same face and body. She _needed_ Harry to tell her.

 _Who was Harry?_

"And what makes your life more valuable than theirs? You can't play god, Harry."

Harry's gaze fell to the floor, salt white hair cutting her off once more, and Hermione waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. Silence. Hermione's temper snapped like a rubber band, with a zap and a sting. Storming over, she barely stopped at the red circle painted on the floor, swirling around Harry, a warning of the chains length and her subsequent reach.

"Why did you do it? You were… You were like a beast. That… That _thing_ I saw out there, jumping from one to another… Sucking the life-force right out of people… That wasn't my friend. That wasn't _my_ Harry."

The silence drifted around them like a winter breeze, frigid and bitter. Hermione was about to scream, yell, perhaps beg for Harry to just… Just… Just talk to her, explain, help her see why this happened, how it happened, when, low and rumbling, Harry gave her answer in three simple, nonchalant words. In that moment, Hermione sort of hated her with a burning passion.

"I was hungry."

Hermione scoffed, her hands going up into her own bushy hair, to tug or pull it out at the root in frustration, she didn't know. She paced, around, side to side, just shy of crossing the red circle, and with each word that passed her lips, her incredulousness grew.

"So, you just ate them? When you get peckish, you pick up a snickers not a Merlin damned person-"

Harry was up in an instant, there, right there, in front of her, by the red line, her nose nearly touching Hermione's, slit pupils thin and keen. Hermione stumbled back, heart skyrocketing, nearly landing on her arse on the damp, cold stone. Her voice bellowed around them, bouncing off the walls, ringing in Hermione's ears like the sound of an earthquake, deep and bone shattering.

"I'm not human!"

Hermione stuttered, going to reply, but now that Harry was speaking, it appeared like she wasn't willing to stop. Everything, all of it, long repressed anger, doubt, fear, it came rushing forth, drowning them in a blistering sea of confusion and frustration.

"I've never been human! It's you lot who put that skin on me! You dressed me up, put bloody bows in my hair and acted as if I was some fucking Pomeranian puppy! You're not upset that I killed twenty-three people, your upset that I didn't play the part of being a good little house-trained pet! Well, guess what? When you kick a dog long enough, it bites back!"

The creak of Harry's chains straining forced Hermione to glance behind her, towards the door, debating whether she could run fast enough should the metal break. Of course, Harry being Harry, read all this from her mind and the answering roar of pure anger forced Hermione to snap her head back around to Harry so fast, she was sure she had whiplash.

"Do you know Shacklebolt killed fifty people in the first wizarding war? Tonks killed eighteen in the second! You, yourself, killed Umbridge! Oh, you may not have done it by your own hand, but you led her to the Centaurs, and you very well fucking know what sort of grizzly demise they would have wrought on her for crossing their land! Aurors kill every Merlin-damned day! So how is that different, huh? You all did it to survive! It was war, you all say, we had to fight and kill to live! What makes that so different to me? I did what I did to survive! To live! I was starving!"

Hermione could hear the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears, bleeding into Harry's deep dark voice, mixing, swirling, a song written in war drums.

"I'm not talking about hunger as you know it! Not the kind that makes you wander into the kitchen at three am! I'm talking of starvation! The kind that screws and twists your insides up so tight you're a gordian knot! It burns through you, like lava, eating and eating and eating until all you can think about is the pain and the torture! It's all you breathe, all you think, all you can do but to fight it! Well, Hermione, I couldn't fight it any longer! I've been fighting it my entire life, and I gave in. I was born in hunger; I refuse to die in it too. Why is that wrong?"

Harry's voice came settling back down, lapping at Hermione, soft and gentle, honest, as she leaned as close to Hermione as she could, face open and true.

"And you know what? I'm _not_ sorry. I would do it all again. I'm only sorry I didn't get to every single Deatheater out there."

Hermione blinked and felt something warm and wet trickling down her cheek, cresting on her chin. Slowly, she realised she was crying. Why? Because her friend was so unrepentant for what she had done? Because what she had said had been true? She wasn't human and never had been? They had all been fooling themselves for thinking otherwise? Truth Hermione didn't want to ever face? Or, was it because, underneath all that blistering rage, the almost unabashed pride in her killings, Hermione could hear and see the fear and confusion lurking underneath?

Hermione knew Harry. She really did. She knew Harry only ever got this angry, so explosive, when she was trying to hide what she thought was her weaknesses. She put on a show, puffed up, became acidic and mean, downright vicious and callous sometimes, when she was _hurt_. Like a big cat, Harry clawed and hissed at anything that so much as moved in her general direction, swiped at the vet trying to help fix the broken leg. In those moments, when she was hurt or scared, Harry tried to push everyone away, and she would only get more spiteful and crueler as she continued to do so.

Most often than not, she did it to protect those around her, and with her natural ability to read one's mind, she was prolifically good at finding just the right sore spots to swing at. Here, chained to the floor like a rabid dog, collared and with her claws capped, perhaps she was painting herself as some irredeemable killer to protect Hermione from what was to come.

 _The Ministry was not going to let Harry walk away._

They both knew this. How could they not? In so, Hermione thought, Harry was trying to brace Hermione for that outcome. It would be ten-times easier to walk away from some unapologetic thing that had ate twenty-three people without guilt, than it would be to leave her dear friend to whatever the Ministry had in mind. But Hermione knew Harry, even if she couldn't read her, and she knew exactly what Harry was doing. When Harry backtracked and sagged back to the floor, rumbling through a disdainful speech, though she never could bring herself to meet Hermione's eye, Hermione's assumption only solidified.

"Why are you here, Hermione? If you want an apology, you're not going to get it. If you're here to find, what is it you called me? _Your Harry_ , I'm right here. I've always been here. This has always been me. Everyone was just too blind to see. And if you want to say goodbye before they lock me away forever, get it over with."

Hermione edged back to the red circle, but this time, she sat down. Even if Harry was confused over what she had done, even if she felt guilt over it, she had ate twenty-three people, no one knew exactly what she was or what she was capable of to her full extent, and the Ministry would not let that go, let alone let something like Harry walk the streets unrestrained. Merlin, with Harry's hunger out of control, Hermione was hesitant to do so either. Yet…

"They're not going to lock you away."

Harry finally locked gazes with her, eyes hooded, distrust glimmering in the pale-yellow iris. Hermione didn't blame her for that distrust. It was warranted. Merlin, if Harry knew what she knew…

"They're not?"

Hermione shook her head. She broke eye contact, stomach doing a somersault, bile tasting sour on her tongue.

"Right now, the Wizengamot is in conclave. They don't know what you are, and therefore, you don't currently fall under any jurisdiction of law. They're trying to pass a bill that would label you… Things like you, as, well, as a Dark Creature."

Harry blinked, one, two, three, four. Comprehension settled over her face like snow blanketing a frozen lake, hiding the stormy waters underneath. There was a slight rumble to her, a rumble that picked up, growing, and it took far too long in Hermione's book for her to realise that Harry was laughing.

"And if it passes, they won't kill me. They'll keep me chained up down here. They'll be able to experiment on me. Poke and prod and curse until they figure out how I tick. How to kill things like me. How to bend them to their will. Brilliant. Fucking Brilliant."

In a way, Hermione thought Harry would have preferred an execution order. In truth, Hermione, if she was in Harry's shoes, thought she might have preferred that too. Although the war had been won, Voldemort dead and gone, the Ministry was far from clean, and that was a project that would take years to complete. Corruption didn't end overnight.

"Arthur thinks the bill is going to pass today. He's tried stalling it, but, well, the votes are 82 against you. That's more than four fifths at last count. It's expected to be 93 against today. All they need is ninety for the bill to pass. Most of those sitting in on the Conclave are sons and daughters of the Deatheaters you've ate, their father's and mother's seats having fallen to them after… Well. They're out for blood Harry. Yours."

Hermione watched as Harry's jaw rolled, the corner muscle flexing in sporadic bursts as she tried so hard to hold onto that mask of indifference. Everyone knew what would be in her future if the bill did pass. Live vivisections, experimental cursing and spells, untried cursed objects, the list was endless. As a Dark Creature, Harry would have no rights, no voice, nothing, and, in the end, she would be sold out to the highest bidder who promised to find this or that cure if they could only get their hands on Harry. Bastard would likely get funding to 'experiment' on Harry from the Ministry too.

"So, this is to be my life. A lab rat. I can't say I'm too pleased with the outcome. I gave life hell for a while, though, didn't I? We had some good memories?"

Yes, this was to be Harry's life. _Was_. Now that Hermione knew Harry had not simply lost her mind and become savage, that her friend was still in there somewhere, she only needed to know one last thing. How dangerous was Harry?

"Answer me one question, Harry. Those months in the tent, when you were obviously dying from starvation, why didn't you eat me and Ron? We were right there, right at your grasp."

Harry frowned, her ridges pulling deep over her eyes, and there was no hesitancy in her answer. Not a single lie to be found. Harry was awful at deceit. She always had been.

"Because you're my friends. I love you. I… I couldn't fight the hunger completely, you… Saw how… Unrestrained I became, but I had enough of my mind left to… I couldn't hurt you or Ron. I'd rather die first. However, Deatheaters, they seemed fair game."

It was the first real thing Harry had said to her since Hermione had walked into this damned chamber, lacking bravado, sarcasm or sordid attempts to get Hermione to walk away and not look back. And, most importantly, it was all Hermione needed to hear. Harry could, in some way, control her hunger. Even when starving, half out of her mind, she had selected her targets, only Deatheaters, and she recognized that. If she could control her hunger that way, even as desperate as she had become, there was _hope_. Who knew? Perhaps, with a little experimentation themselves, they could find something Harry could eat that wasn't a homosapien.

However, Harry would never get that chance if the Ministry got their way, and she stayed down here, in this forsaken place. They wouldn't want her to. No. They wanted something new, something never seen before, something shiny they could dig their own claws in and bleed out for all it was worth… But twenty-three people… Deatheaters, yes, but… No. _Hermione wasn't going to let this happen._ Hermione glanced behind her, towards the door, to the bottom crack. No light. The guards were gone.

Hermione crawled over the red line, ignoring Harry's bewildered 'what the fuck are you doing?', huddled close to the taller girl, reached into her back pocket and pulled out the iron key Malfoy of all people managed to smuggle to her yesterday. Hermione went to unchain Harry's ankle shackle, but the leg jerked as far away as it could.

"What are you doing? Stop! They'll kill you for this! The guards are watching! Anyone who shows even an inkling of kindness or compassion gets in trouble. Stop, Hermione!"

Another reason for Harry's nearly outright hostility earlier, and another reason for Hermione to get her the hell out of here. Now that she was close, so close, in the dim light, Hermione could see the bloodstains on Harry's clothes, and though dried and dark, up close, Hermione could see most of them were dark green not brown. It was her own blood, and Harry had not been cut during the Battle of Hogwarts _._ The sour taste was back, and Hermione had trouble swallowing. Hermione stretched over for her shackle, but Harry's low voice, barely above a whisper, stalled her hand.

"I wasn't lying, Hermione. If I ever get that hunger again… If I… I will _eat_. I'm not strong enough to fight it. I will eat. I refuse to starve again."

For a long while, Hermione's hand stayed hovering. She knew what this was. Harry giving her one last chance to turn her back, and, Hermione wasn't afraid to say, she really did think about it. If they couldn't find a substitute, if they couldn't find a work around for Harry to eat, well, those lives lost from now on will be on Hermione's shoulders for helping set Harry loose.

Could she bare that burden? Then she heard herself, back before they went Horcrux hunting, when Harry had tried to leave without them. _We're with you whatever happens._ She had said that. That was her promise. Her hand settled on the shackle, her resolve resolute, the key sliding home.

"The guards are gone. Bill's caused a mishap the floor above by now, and they're likely up there trying to stop the chaos of George's latest invention. Come on, we have to hurry. They won't be gone long and if we're to get out, we need to meet Arthur and Ron on the third floor in exactly…"

Hermione glanced to her wristwatch, not wanting to preform magic and set off the wards in the room.

"Twenty minutes."

One by one, the shackles fell to the floor with a clink and thud. The last to go were the hand cages, and as Harry sighed and rubbed at her hands, Hermione winced as she caught sight of the slits on her palm. Nevertheless, the curious part of her, the one always ticking away in the background, wondered how they worked exactly. There had been no bite marks on the corpses, and she wondered if Harry would let her-… She quickly cut that thought short. If Hermione started going down that route, that slippery slope, she would be no better than this Ministry.

"They'll lock you up for this. They'll lock you all up for this. I can't allow that."

Hermione scoffed and stood, dusting her hands off on her jeans.

"Harry, we really don't have time for your martyr complex right now! Look, Arthur, Ron, Bill and George have alibis. They're safe. The Wizengamot won't touch them. And by the time they look at the log of this room and see my name, we'll be long gone, and they'll think all this was me. So, kindly shut up and get moving!"

Harry stood, head cocked to the side.

"We? You're coming with me?"

For the first time, Hermione smiled and, as daringly as she could, stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. To be honest, it felt a bit like trying to pet an unconscious great white shark, you knew you were safe, but couldn't help the shot of adrenalin to the system in the tenacious alleged 'what if?'

"Do you really think I would let them do this to you? New diet or not? You're my friend Harry. We'll figure something out about food. We'll find a way. Until then, I'm right at your side, like we always have been. Nothing is going to change that."

Gradually, insecure, Harry nodded, and Hermione's hand dropped as she started towards the door, opening the heavy wood a slither to peak outside. Empty. Good. She waved Harry over before slipping through the crack.

"Where are we going?"

Harry asked as she joined Hermione outside the muddy chamber. Now that she was outside the wards that limited magic inside, her glamours fell back over her like a waterfall. Green eyes, pink skin, black hair. _Human_. Smart move. It would be harder to find a brunette in the crowd than it would be a green skinned, white haired alien looking person. Bending down to her boots, into the hem, Hermione pulled out two wands, throwing one at Harry which was deftly caught mid-air. Armed, glamoured, and ready, the two began to slink down the hall.

"I have a cousin in America. They've been put on a very special muggle project. The Ministry has wanted wizarding representation on it for years, and the muggle government have finally given them the nod to send some people over. It's huge Harry, a real game changer. You still have some supporters left in the Ministry, and with my cousin already onboard for the project, we've managed to get our names on the list. All we have to do is get to Colorado without being caught, and we're home free."

Coming to a corner junction, Harry reached out, snatched at her shoulder and pushed her back into the wall, sliding in next to her smoothly. Hermione went to speak, but Harry's free hand clamped over her mouth. Despite it looking human, Hermione knew what that hand really was, what was on it, and as her blood began to run cold, she heard footsteps echoing down from the hallway.

The patrolling Auror walked past and never saw a thing. Sluggishly, Harry let go, but Hermione saw the flash of hurt in her eye as she picked up what Hermione thought was going to happen. As Hermione went to apologize, perhaps explain, something, Harry was already edging further down the hall, towards the way the Auror came, around the corner, and diverting conversation.

"Wherever we run, the Ministry will come for me. They hate leaving loose ends."

Hermione trailed after Harry, trusting in the taller girls unnatural senses.

"Trust me, where we're going the ministry could never reach. Not without upsetting their muggle counterparts, something they won't be willing to do. Even for getting their hands on you."

They had to stop and duck around another corner as another three Aurors came rambling past, banter good-naturedly batting back and forth between the trio. Harry waited a decent three minutes to speak after they disappeared from eyesight.

"And what is this special muggle project called?"

Hermione glanced at her through the dark, grinning.

"Operation Pegasus. Ready?"

Harry grinned back, dipped her head once, and with an easy flick of her wand, shot a stunner at the two Auror's creeping up on their backs, Just as Hermione shot an incarcerous at the one trying to sneak up from their front.

* * *

 **Thoughts?**

 **Next chapter, we finally reach Stargate Atlantis!** Whose P.O.V do you wish to see next?

We're not going to hear from Todd for a little while, as the next time we will see him in this fic will be when Harry meets him. All P.O.V's will change a little bit from now on, as up until this point, they've been filling in the blanks and adding flashbacks as a sort of extended exposition prologue, so expect future chapters to be based more in the present rather than the past, though the past, especially Todd's, is explored further, and a lot more outside their heads, with less focus on thoughts and more dialogue and action.

 **As for pairings;** I've had a few questions about the pairings, and I've never explicitly said what was or wasn't the pairing, only that this fic is a Harry/Multi. Well, dear readers, that's because I haven't got the full grasp on the pairings yet, lol. I was originally aiming just for Wraiths, Steve, Michael, Bob, the survivor from the episode The Deviant One, and, at a push, one or two more. However, my choice isn't set in stone. I'm definitely sticking to the ones I've just listed, Steve, Michael, Bob and the one from The Deviant One, but one reader brought up the question of Sheppard and, well, the muses haven't been quiet since lol. **What do you guys think? Should I include Sheppard in the pairing or not?**

* * *

 **ABOUT THIS CHAPTER:**

I've been shying away from Harry's P.O.V for a very good reason, as I want her to remain a little mysterious. I mean that in a way that I want the reader, as those around her in this fic, question just how Wraith like is she? As with this chapter, I wanted the debate over whether Harry truly feels remorse for her 'eating' people, as Hermione assumes she has, to be in a sharp juxtaposition to what Harry is actually saying. Harry readily admits she doesn't feel sorry at all, and yet Hermione, perhaps because of her past with Harry, wanting to think the best of her close friend, as we all do with those we love, quickly rejects that and presumes that Harry is lying, acting, covering up her guilt. And I wanted those two sides to clash, for the reader to decide for themselves where they fall. Is she feeling guilty? Or doesn't she? I wanted to keep that curiosity alive.

As for Hermione's confusion and, almost anger, at Harry, being prevalent, I thought was a necessary route to take. It just wouldn't feel right for, especially someone like Hermione, to see her best friend do this sort of thing, take lives, and be okay-dokey about it all. (This is the girl who set up S.P.E.W after all) Yet, this is also Hermione's best friend, a girl she has grown up with, and of course love and memories are going to conflict with that… I want to say betrayal, Hermione feels. In the end, I wanted Hermione to jump between anger and sympathy, love and hatred, condemnation and acceptance. Nevertheless, I think Hermione in the end, would have Harry's back, and she would also have a sort of naive confidence, arrogance almost, that she could help Harry by finding her something else to eat rather than people. Is that confidence misplaced? Well, you'll just have to wait and see!

* * *

 **A huge thank you to everyone!** Silent readers, followers, favourite-ers, reviewers, if I could, I would give you all a hug, but I'm afraid my thanks will have to do.

 _ **As always, please drop a review if you have a moment, they keep the muses chattering.**_


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER III: SUSPICION**

 **PART ONE**

* * *

 _Six Months Later…_

No one's P.O.V

The hiss of the Stargate locking whirred out into the Gateroom. The roar of rushing water heralded the launch as the wormhole stabilized into a rippling loop of undulating blue light.

The alarms of Atlantis were instant. The screaming sirens marking off world activation sent the diminutive cluster of people nestled in the Control room into a frantic flurry of movement. Marines came pounding into the open space of the Gateroom, boots slapping against slick tile in a stampede, backs straight, feet swift, guns raised.

The energy shield came sliding over the gate with a muffled whistle.

Doctor Elizabeth Weir came jogging into the Control room, fresh and soggy from a hastily abandoned shower, towel hanging limply around her shoulders, eyes trained firmly on the open gate below her.

A male technician swivelled in his chair, glasses sitting wonky on the bridge of his proud nose, as he regarded the head of the Atlantis operation with watery, tired eyes.

"It's Major Sheppard's I.D.C."

Weir ran a shaky hand through the curls still cloying damply on her glistening forehead.

"They've only been gone a few hours."

From the crackle of a radio stationed close by, Major John Sheppard's voice popped and buzzed over the weak line. Urgent. Strong.

"Atlantis, this is Sheppard. We're coming in hot."

Immediately, Weir waved her hand to the technician.

"Lower the shield."

The patter of buttons being pressed hid the sound of her bare footsteps as she made her way over to the balcony overlooking the Stargate. The metal railing was cold and sleek in her palm. Quite like a gun would be, she thought. For this is what it was. Every order she gave, every direction and edict was a bullet fired. A possible life lost in friendly fire.

Her shoulders had never felt so heavy.

As if Atlantis was a nest of wasps shaken furiously, more Marines flooded the enclosure of the gate with a buzz and a drone, braced and bolted, crouched, hearts pounding, fingers itching on triggers. The shield fell.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve…

An energy blast of hot green light burst through the stargate. A few marines dived, rolling left and right, as the blast found its mark on a pillar of the room behind them, scorching the bronze metal in a streak and star of blackened char. Another blast.

Another.

Then, thank all, Major John Sheppard came flying out the Stargate, gun high, bullets firing, as he was followed by Lieutenant Aiden Ford, firing just as feverishly as Sheppard, Doctor Rodney McKay, huffing and flushed from an ardent run, and Teyla Emmagan, lithely skidding on her knees, rolling underneath a blast that followed her through.

"Raise the shield!"

Weir thundered, but it was too late. One last shot got through the gate, striking McKay squarely in the face. He cried out, he folded, like a stack of cards under a harsh breeze, and bedlam broke out.

"McKay!"

Sheppard cried as he and Ford lunged for McKay's wilted form, rolling the unconscious man onto his back just as Weir snatched the radio from her belt hoop and flipped the switch.

"Medical team to the Gateroom!"

All Weir could do was stare down, wide-eyed, as Sheppard pressed his fingers against the juncture of McKay's neck. She could only breathe when she saw Sheppard's shoulders sag in relief, as his gaze drifted to her own from across the long room.

"I've got a pulse!"

The Stargate closed with a burst.

* * *

John Sheppard's P.O.V

It didn't take long for McKay to woke up in the stiff, starched bed in the infirmary. He looked a little odd, laying so floppily, mouth somewhat ajar. Like a puppet with their strings cut.

 _Better a puppet than dead._

Carson Beckett, their doctor, immediately jumped into action, checking pulse, flashing a torch into his eyes to watch the pupils dilate, as Sheppard hung back.

"How you feelin'?"

He asked. Sheppard would never tell McKay how fast his heart had fallen in his chest back there, watching as he dropped, crumpled. Sheppard's pride wouldn't let him, and he was sure McKay's arrogance, if he ever did let on, would never let him live it down.

So here he stood at his bedside, effortless, thumb threaded through belt loop, grinning down to a McKay who was flagging his jaw in an effort to speak, acting as if there wasn't a care to be had.

The truth was, there was _everything_ to worry about.

"I ca' fee' anythi... I ... I ca' talk!"

Sheppard chuckled.

"You can't talk either."

McKay scowled at him, or Sheppard supposed that wobble at his slack brows was _supposed_ to be a scowl.

"'at's wha' I said!"

Beckett finally pulled back, plucking up McKay's medical chart to jot down some notes.

"Your body experienced a full overload to its sensory and motor nervous system."

McKay blinked at him.

"Wha'?"

Inching in closer to the bed, now that the dread and adrenaline was slowly rinsing away from his overtaxed system and the possibility of having to watch _another_ man under him die was looking unlikely, Sheppard made an offhanded gesture to his face.

"You took one of those Wraith stunners right to the face."

Beckett lit up like a Christmas tree, fleetingly forgetting about the chart in his hands as he gestured excitedly, spinning to face Sheppard head on. The doctor had been the same since Sheppard had first met him in the Gateroom of SG1, what felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been four and a half months.

When there was something new to discover and explore, Beckett was there like a dog with a bone, drooling with anticipation and their tail wagging a mile a minute.

"It's really quite fascinating, actually. The Wraith weapon impedes the firing of neurons that enable the necessary-"

McKay, however, was not interested in the scientific angle of his sudden listlessness, as he abruptly cut the good doctor off with a hysterical howl.

"A' I paraly'ed?"

Beckett shook his head.

"The paralysis is only temporary. Don't worry, Dr McKay. You'll be up and about in no time."

Beckett tilted close to Sheppard, voice dropping.

"Bloody good thing that Wraith weapon is only designed to incapacitate or he'd be dead."

"Wha'? Wha' di' you ju' say? Dea'? I' be Dea?!"

Beckett chuckled and strolled away to his desk, shuffling the towering stack of papers piled crookedly on the corner. Sheppard winced at the sight. Nearly five months here, and almost all Stargate Atlantis personal had been, at least once, in the very same position McKay currently was.

A drop of luck on the right side of dead.

Beckett was likely the busiest individual on this mission.

It was only getting worse.

Lately, there wasn't a single off world exploration that did or had not ended much like this one. In a hailstorm of Wraith fire, and a person clinging to life in the infirmary. One day, one day too soon Sheppard thought, that drop of luck was going to run dry. Sheppard only hoped, as selfish and heartless as it could be taken as, it wasn't one of _his_ team to pay that price first.

The infirmary door opened with a click. Doctor Weir's head popped through the crack, her keen gaze sliding to Sheppard instantly.

"Major? Could I see you for a second?"

Sheppard gave one last peek down to McKay, watching as his chest rose and fell steadily. _He was alive. It was okay. Everything was fine. He wasn't a withered husk, bled and fed and-…_ With a cocky slant of the brow, Sheppard winked and began walking to the door. He could hear the bedsheets ruffle behind him, as if McKay was attempting to follow.

He wouldn't get far.

Not with those jellied legs.

"'allo? 'allo?!"

The doors closing muted McKay's indignant voice.

The first warning sign that Weir was on edge, and this, subsequently, wasn't a friendly catchup, was the speedy pace she set for them both as they marched through the winding and snaking corridors of Atlantis. When something troubled Doctor Weir, Sheppard had found, she was never still. Pacing, marching, trudging on.

In the last month, Sheppard wasn't sure he had seen her in a seat once.

"He's going be fine."

He said in the ensuing silence, unsure whether he was really speaking to Weir or himself. What fine exactly was, he was similarly uncertain. Sure, McKay may survive this latest brush with the Wraith… But what about the next?

And the next?

And the next?

Because every time they turned a fucking corner, it seemed, there they were, _the Wraith,_ waiting. If not McKay, who else? Teyla? Ford? Fuck… Weir?

 _No._

No one else was going to die on his watch.

Weir stared dead ahead as she spoke, steel lurking beneath the silk of her voice.

"I've heard. I want know what happened out there."

Sheppard scoffed.

"The same old thing."

He didn't need to see her face to know she was frowning.

That was all everyone was doing lately.

Frowning and dying.

"Which makes it the fifth time your team's encountered the Wraith out of how many missions?"

She stated as she came to a stop near the stairs leading to the Control room, one foot perched on the ascent. Sheppard halted behind her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his combats.

"Nine."

Weir finally faced him, sombre, as her head slanted, forcing him to give voice to the thoughts he didn't want to consider. For, if he considered them, really thought about all this, there was only one ending.

An ending no one wanted to see coming.

They knew everyone here.

Most were friends now. Survival did that. Created bonds and kinship and affinity.

To think one of them, perhaps one close to Sheppard himself, could… Could…

"So probably _not_ a coincidence."

Weir chuckled.

It wasn't a pleasant noise.

Harsh. Dry. _Dead._

Sheppard stared and wished she wouldn't say _it._ Anything but _that._ Don't. Don't Don't.

Of course, she _did._

"I think it's pretty damn obvious now. We've got a spy in Atlantis."

Really, there was no other explanation, and, Sheppard knew, there would be nothing more painful.

Someone had betrayed them to the Wraith.

This really fucking sucked.

Pun intended.

* * *

 _Sheppard's P.O.V_

The conference room in Atlantis was always the best lit place. Most of the Ancient structure was lit with dim, cold light, that left the humans with strained eyes. Not here, though. Here, around the circular table, facing off amongst the heads of departments and crème of the crop, the light was fierce and bright.

It left no room for secrets entombed in the dark.

It also emphasized McKay's sock clad foot, hooked onto the table, as he massaged his sole with grunts and groans. Sheppard visible cringed.

He thought he could smell cheese.

"Could you please not do that here?"

McKay's fingers halted, before they went back to work with vigour. Brainiac was likely taunting him.

"My foot is still numb, if you'll excuse me."

"Well at least your mouth still works fine."

McKay glared at the goad, foot peeling off the table to slap down, as he opened his mouth to retort.

The doors to the conference room opened, cutting off whatever long-winded response he had. Almost certainly filled with anecdotes of how massage was scientifically proven to aid the nervous system in such circumstances and he, Sheppard, would of course know that if he had bothered to finish high school, McKay had been brewing in that quick mind of his.

Weir came in heading the small group, dressed impeccably in her duty uniform, followed close by Sergeant Bates, in full military regalia, gun included, a person who was rapidly becoming a thorn in Sheppard's side, trailed by one of Sheppard's own teammates, Ford.

They weren't alone.

Two women breezed into the room before the doors resolutely shut behind them.

Sheppard knew the first young woman. Short, with hair always on the wrong side of chaotic, her inquisitive brown eyes glanced about the place with practiced, curious ease. The kind of gaze that didn't miss a single damned thing. He had seen her in the infirmary most nights, flicking through paperwork, picking up where Beckett left off, trying to ease the workload dumped on the doctor.

Hermione Jean Granger.

The second, however, was someone Sheppard had never, personally, seen before. She was a tall thing, lithe too, a good head and shoulders above his own height. Nimble and... Yes, a little daunting. There was something cat-like-

 _Predatory_ , in the sleekness of her face, in the angle of her jaw and cheeks, skulking in the arch of her brows and slanting swoop of her eye. Eyes an eery green that, when Sheppard blinked, reminded him of Wraith fire.

There was something else too, something more than the black tresses and carven face and eyes the hue of peril, something in the way she moved as she walked, a molten grace, a calm confidence, but…

 _Danger._

Sheppard saw her, and immediately the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

It didn't make sense, of course. She looked young, as young as her companion, sixteen, seventeen, too young to be here of all places. And she didn't even come close, as her friend, Hermione, came ambling towards the table to take a seat with Weir, Ford and Sergeant Bates.

She stuck to the door, right by the wall, removed and separated, and-

In the only shadows of the room.

Silent.

Watching.

He also knew _what_ they were.

Witches.

Or, as muggles had come to call them, the few that knew of their existence, Atomans. Short for Atomic Manipulators. Factions of humans who had mutated the Ancient gene into something completely… Other. No one, currently, knew why this mutation had taken place, how only some humans were susceptible to it, but it had.

And here they were.

Real life, flesh and blood Atomans.

You could pull them out of the crowd in Atlantis by their flag embroidered into their arm sleeve, like everyone else, the only difference being the overlaid red stitched pentacle sewn over the top. A blaring sign, or warning, of their status.

Only a handful had been allowed to operate in the SGC, as a bridge to better communication and relations between the two who inhabited the same planet, and only these two, standing before Sheppard, had been allowed onto the Stargate Atlantis mission.

Just two.

 _That's all you'll need,_ the Atomans had told them when the SGC had requested more.

No doubt, these two had been chosen because the shorter one, Granger, was Carson Beckett's niece. They kept to themselves. Quiet. Reclusive. They never visited the mess hall, their own sleeping quarters were separated into another pylon, and who knew what they actually did here, apart from the few times Sheppard had caught Granger assisting her uncle.

By the records kept in the Control room, neither had ever taken a Gate trip before, and until this day, Sheppard had only ever heard people whisper about the second one, so much so, he had begun to think she was imaginary.

 _Did you see the tall one? I caught her lifting in the gym… Absolute beast. How old are they? They can't be older than twenty, surely? What do they even do? I bumped into that tall one, you know… She growled at me. I nearly shit my pants!_

They were only allowed this estrangement because of their status, separate under their own magical government, they had been given self-governance while in Atlantis, and were only under direct command of Weir when in emergency conditions.

If they were here right now, in this room, it meant either shit was hitting the fan, really and truly going to hell if nothing before this day had dragged them out of their holes, or the Atomans, who had previously been so diligent in isolating themselves from everyone else, wanted something.

Neither boded well for Sheppard's sanity.

"Alright, let's get started."

Ford frowned at Weir.

"Shouldn't we wait for Teyla?"

Weir swallowed, a bob in her throat, a _delay._ She cut a glance Sheppard's way, before she directed her gaze back to Ford. Oh, Sheppard was _not_ going to enjoy this.

"Teyla wasn't invited."

Sheppard bit his tongue, counted back from five.

"She's a member of my team."

Bates, of course, found this the perfect time to butt in.

"She's also an Athosian, sir."

They better not be saying what Sheppard _thought_ they were saying.

"So?"

His cool exterior cracked a little, broke like glass on concrete, as he barked back. Teyla had been on countless mission with them-

With _him._ Not only did Sheppard know her, been through things Bates could _never_ imagine with the woman, she was his _friend._

If Sheppard was one thing and one thing only, it was loyal.

Bates lip curled, and underneath the table, Sheppard's hand fisted.

"If we've been compromised, and every indication suggests that we have, it's almost certain that one of _them_ is responsible."

Sheppard chuckled.

"We're talking about _Teyla_."

Weir edged in.

"I don't like it either, Major ..."

"Good, then get her on in here."

With a pointed look shot at him, more than hinting at her annoyance at his stubbornness, Weir meticulously carried on as if he had never spoken.

"... but the safety of this base and its personnel are my main concern right now, as it should be _yours._ The Wraith have shown up on five of the last nine planets your team has visited, and given the fact that two of those worlds were unpopulated, we can pretty much assume that they have been alerted to your missions by someone on this base."

But alerted _by_ Teyla? Surely, she wouldn't out her own team to the Wraiths, especially when she was _with_ them. It was redundant. Teyla had nearly died as much as the rest of them, perhaps more so, and while Bates would likely say that was a ploy of some kind to gain trust, how she miraculously survived in some cases being point and proof, in the end, neither he or Weir had been there.

They did not see how hard Teyla fought the Wraith.

They did not hear the distaste in her voice at the mere mention of them.

They had not seen first-hand, as Sheppard had, the first time he had met the Athosians planet-side, how much they had struggled to survive because of the Wraith.

The pain.

The fear.

Sheppard was sure, as sure as he could be of anything, that Teyla would first die before ever aiding the Wraith in any form, shape, or colour.

"If someone on this base was communicating with the Wraiths, then why hasn't Atlantis been attacked?"

Sheppard gestured to McKay with a careless sweep of his hand.

"Good point."

Bates, naturally, was not having any of it. In all honesty, he had been having none of _anything_ concerning Sheppard since the death of his head officer, Colonel Marshall Sumner. Certainly, he blamed Sheppard for his death at the hands of the Wraith Queen when they first came to Atlantis and, foolishly, inadvertently, dreadfully stumbled across the Wraith and woke them from hibernation.

If his nightmares were anything to go by, Sheppard sure as hell blamed himself too.

The way the hand had slammed into his chest, the sound of a starving growl, the delight-

"Maybe we should just stop using the Stargate indefinitely."

Sheppard shook his head. He needed to think clearly.

"We can't do that."

Bates crossed his arms over his chest. Petulant.

"Why not?"

God, was he talking to a child?

"Because we need to power this place."

Bates sneered.

"They seem to be running fine right now."

5\. 4. 3. 2. 1. Calm. He was calm. As calm as the sea outside. He wouldn't shout. He wouldn't beat Sergeant Bates. And he _absolutely_ wouldn't drown him in the very sea that he, Sheppard, was _definitely_ as calm as. By how taut his voice had become, Sheppard's calming techniques were not working.

"OK, when the Wraith do show up, and they will, how do we defend ourselves?"

McKay, in spite of their habitually antagonistic and turbulent relationship, did as he always did when Sheppard was being driven into a corner; backed him up.

"Or, for that matter, how do we get back to Earth, huh?"

Weir sighed deeply.

"This is the only Stargate in the Pegasus galaxy that can even reach Earth, and if it comes to that, we're going to have to use the self-destruct before the Wraith take the city."

With a triumphant smile, Sheppard eyed Bates.

"Bottom line: we need to use the Gate."

Obviously, Bates brought it all right back around to a full circle.

"Then we've got to find out who's responsible A.S.A.P. I suggest we start by confining all non-base personnel to the south side of the complex."

Sheppard spluttered.

"Are you kidding?!"

 _Confinement?_

Confinement was his grand answer? Not only did it show Bates's lack of experience in leadership, it also revealed a complete disregard for those around him. Confinement, of any sort, in this high-tension environment, where suspicion, on both sides, were being flung from wall to wall, would only lead to revolts.

And that's the last thing they needed right now.

A war with the Wraith every time they stepped through the Gate, and a fuckin' civil war every time they came home.

If he didn't know better, know how much Bates despised the Wraith himself, Sheppard would say he was working for them with that brilliant brain child of his.

They would be easy pickings if they didn't get their shit together and started acting as _one_.

"That's the absolute minimum we should do. If Colonel Sumner was still here-"

Sheppard was out of his chair, tilting over the table, eye to eye with Bates.

"He's not!"

Their gazes locked. Lingered. Battling.

Sheppard could not do his job, a job that had lives depending on it, lives in this very room, if every choice he made, every word he gave, every left step he took, was disparaged and condemned by someone who was meant to be following his lead.

Discourse sowed discourse, and at the moment, with how things were becoming on Atlantis, full of suspicion and mistrust and cynicism, a powder keg ready to blow at the tiniest spark, they did not need their heads of department going for each other's throats.

"I am."

Bates paused… And gave in.

"Yes, sir."

Sheppard knew enough to know this wasn't over. Not completely. Bates, as he always did, had more to say, though he halted his tongue.

He also knew the twinging in his temples was a sign of a massive migraine.

Brilliant.

Fuckin' brilliant.

"We're not going to start treating anyone like prisoners."

Weir asserted as Sheppard retook his seat.

"Well, that's good."

Sheppard replied, because if they did, if this, something as magnificent as exploring a whole other galaxy, turned out to be them oppressing the natives, natives who had helped them time and time again against the sake of themselves, they would have to imprison Sheppard too, otherwise _he_ would be the one leading the revolt.

"That said, steps should be taken to safeguard the more sensitive areas of this facility. It's only reasonable."

Bates nodded.

"I recommend no-go zones starting with Stargate Operations, the labs, power generation and the Jumper Bay."

Weir homed in on the Sergeant.

"I'd like to meet with every Athosian on this base. I mean, they've been here three months and I only know a handful of them by name."

Of course they were skittish, Sheppard thought. The only other alien race the Athosians had previous contact with were the Wraith during culls. No one, really, could blame them for their hesitancy.

Bates, evidently, could.

"I could start setting up interviews as soon as we're done here."

Weir jotted something down in her notebook.

"In the meantime, all Gate travel is suspended until further notice. When you have finished scheduling the interviews, send them to Harriet Potter."

Sheppard frowned. Who?

"Potter? Who the hell is Potter?"

Sheppard almost jumped when the shorter girl, sitting next to Ford, folder smartly positioned in front of her, a mountain of colour coded pens at its side, coughed delicately into a fist. Straightening in her seat, as if she was going to give an acceptance speech for the Nobel peace prize, all smiles and twinkling eyes, she scanned those in the room.

"I'm Hermione Granger, and that one there, lurking in the shadows which I told her _not_ to do because it puts people on edge, is Potter. Harriet Potter."

McKay actually laughed.

"And why exactly are we sending possible spies to you? No offence, but I'm sure a marine or a specialized interrogator would be more efficient than a girl who-"

She prowled out of the shadows into the room, coming to a steadfast stand beside Granger. Sheppard could see her properly now.

You could always tell the scientists from the military with a single glance, Sheppard thought. Granger, like McKay and Beckett, was dressed primly, starched white shirt, pressed slacks, shiny Mary-Janes, and a severe bun.

Office and lab work, far from combat.

Potter, however, appeared less welcoming. She, like Granger, wore the standard Atlantis Jacket, but the suit underneath it was nothing less than armour. Black, leather looking from far away, close though, in the light, Sheppard could see it was not leather and hewn from some sort of scaled hide, as dark as her hair. The sleeves were long, melting into the pair of matching gloves as the trousers faded into thick boot, with a tight high mandarin collar that wrapped around her neck.

The only skin on show was her face.

The knobbed sticks lining her left hip, five in total, nestled against something that glinted.

A dagger.

Undeniably _not_ administrative or laboratory work.

"I… _specialize_ in occlumency and legilimency. If there's a secret to be found, I'm the one to find it."

Her voice was not what Sheppard had been expecting. English accent thick, yes, as with Granger, but all lightness, youth and cheeriness vanished. Replaced by smoke and bark and waterfall mist.

A forest at midnight.

A bit like a Wraith, in truth, if they did not speak in that horrendous dual tone.

McKay scoffed.

"Occlu-what-now? Sight? What does that have anything to do with interrogation or-"

There was a twitch on her face, a slight curl of her lip, one Granger, as he did, caught as she softly, but swiftly, cut in.

"Harry's a telepath. The strongest my kind has ever known, and definitely stronger than any _your_ kind has come across. She's right. If anyone is hiding anything, anything at all, Harry is the one to find it."

Harry chuckled, deep, rumbling, partway laughter, halfway growl.

"And, Dr Meredith, it's extremely rude to be thinking of what size bra a person wears. Particularly a six-foot-two, _not_ an eight-foot woman who can, as you are currently thinking, snap your neck before you can blink."

McKay's face turned a violent pink, blistering down his neck in scalding red blotches. Sheppard couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Laughed for the first time in what felt like years.

"I like you. However, if you're a telepath, why have we not been using you before now? It would have been helpful to have a mind-reader out there on the field. You could have saved us a lot of trouble."

At his reasonable question, Harry, as Granger called her, seemed to fold in on herself.

"I… I have difficulty… I…"

Granger was out of her seat, laying a calming hand on the taller woman's shoulder. It was almost funny how high she had to reach.

Almost.

"Harry has trouble around muggles, your kind. She's been isolated most of her life. My kind knows how to instinctively close their mind. At least partially. Muggles _don't._ Not in the slightest. There's a lot of people here, Major. A lot of thoughts and feelings. It's taken her a while to get… Grounded. She also suffers with… digestion complications. Issues that need strict and constant observation and regulation under complete quarantine. It's why we've separated ourselves for so long. She's better now, though. Well enough to begin integrating."

Sheppard cocked a brow at Harry.

"Cheesecake don't agree with you?

Her answering smile was positively keen and slick.

"My food _never_ seems to stop complaining."

There was a joke there, to be sure, loitering between her words. A joke Sheppard couldn't fully grasp, but sent Granger into a sullen nightmare that ended up clipping Harry on the shoulder, scowling.

She only chuckled in return.

Sheppard had the impression she was laughing because no one else was, because no one else could see the gag, because, somehow, someway, that made it all the more hilarious.

He found himself grinning along.

The girl had spunk, and Sheppard liked spunk, and by the sticks at her hip, wands the Atomans called them, that dagger, and the six-foot-two aura of _don't-mess-with-me-or-else_ , and, certainly, the little matter of having a fuckin' telepath on side, the room seemed brighter for her presence.

Things were looking up.

She winked at him.

 _Oh_ … Telepath, yes. That was going to get some getting used to.

 _Welcome aboard this train wreck. If you can, please don't kill McKay. He means well, even if he constantly puts his foot in his mouth._

"No wonder his breath stinks like week old socks. I make no promises, but I'll try. He does turn a delightful shade of red."

The rest of the room seemed bewildered by her sudden switch, semi-heard conversation. Sheppard simply beamed.

She really _was_ a telepath.

This was fuckin' cool.

"Not as cool as you think. Dr Weir, I'm feeling rather… Tired. I think I should head back to my rooms until the interviews can take place."

Weir washed off the confusion on her face with the practiced ease of a politician, replacing it with a warm smile.

"Go ahead. I'll call you in when the time comes."

* * *

 _One Day Later…_

Elizabeth Weir's P.O.V

"Come in!"

Elizabeth shouted to the beeping at her office door without a glance up, as she was hunched over her computer, sleep bruising purple under her eyes. Five more files, and then she would head to bed.

She _would._

She didn't think she had another all-nighter in her.

Not the third in a row.

The door whizzed open.

Their footsteps were silent.

Weir peered up and startled at the person already standing at the edge of her desk.

Harriet Potter stared down at her unflinchingly.

Maybe Weir should make a new rule about wearing bells…

"That was quick. I was not expecting to see you for another week."

Weir said as she placed down her electronic pen, giving the woman in front of her her undivided attention. Harriet finally looked away, down to her tidy desk, idly picking up the little meditating statue of an Athosian Elizabeth kept on her desk. A gift from one of the natives.

She brushed a leather clad thumb over the tiny stone face.

"Muggle's are extremely easy to read. No matter what trinkets and knickknacks they try to surround themselves with, their thoughts always give them away. Voices crying into the void to be heard and appreciated…"

Inexplicably, Weir felt as if Harriet was discussing herself, encircled in the anarchy of the Pegasus galaxy with little pensive sculptures, calming watercolours, and soothing light. All of which did nothing for her escalating anxiety, fear and, God, how very tired she was.

 _Her mask didn't work here._

And that was a problem.

Weir needed to be seen as in control. Steady. Cool. If she didn't, what hope did she have of others feeling the same? It was her job to lead by example. It also made her exceptionally uneasy. How easy it was for this woman, who Weir had only had momentary interaction with on the first day before they set out for the Pegasus and she was put in isolation to adjust to the muggles, that she could so effortlessly strip that well practiced mask away with a mere glance.

Before Weir could answer, perhaps demand she not dig into her mind as she did everyone else even if it was as natural to her as breathing, possibly to tell her to leave right now and never come back, and maybe, just maybe, desperately ask for advice so she could have just one night of unbroken sleep, Harry was smiling, easy breezy and full of charm.

Her cheeks were flushed lightly, dimples prominent, and Weir thought she looked healthier than in the Conference room. In fact, she had not realized, until she saw Harriet standing here, how… Gaunt she had appeared back there.

Gaunt and Haggard.

She must have found something feasible to eat for that dietary problem Granger had mentioned.

Good.

Over the next few weeks, perhaps months, Weir was sure she could use all the help she could get by having a Telepath on hand, healthy and in full faculties, would do wonders.

"They're clean."

Weir took the offer for what it was, an elegant detour of her anxieties she was not ready to face, and straightened in her seat.

At least Harriet Potter seemed, even if she could not help ploughing into peoples private thoughts, feelings and psyches, to have some subtlety and tact, and not flaunt it in their faces.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. It, as with the rest of the dusky spectre of keen slants and angles that rendered her, was sharp. A single tilt up and down. Done.

Blunt.

As keen, quick and candid as Harriet, herself, was turning out to be.

Weir could, in this whole ungodly mess, appreciate that.

Maybe she would actually get some work done with Harry on side.

"If the Athosians are spying, they are not doing it consciously. Neither is there a hidden directive implanted in their minds. I dug deep, there is nothing. They're clean."

Well… Damn. If it was not an Athosian, there was only one other alternative.

Somebody from the SGA.

Her stomach roiled at the sheer thought of it.

Weir knew every single face on her personnel roster, could name them all, had chatted to all of them…

"Thank you, Miss Potter."

Harriet lingered by her desk.

"Dr. Weir… If I could give you some advice?"

Weir was not arrogant enough to dismiss any suggestion given by someone who had, within a day, less than sixteen hours, analysed the minds of the Athosians who, compared to the SGA, outnumbered her men six to one. At her nod, the woman carried on.

"You've alienated them. They're planning on leaving to find new land. They feel… Constricted and distrusted by the recent turn of events. They haven't formed a coherent plan yet, neither have they organised themselves, but they all are thinking of leaving one way or another."

Weir's gaze drifted to the tiny introspective figurines lining her desk. Alienating the Athosians had never been what Weir had wanted. They were a loving bunch, welcoming and warm, and here, lost in the Pegasus galaxy, Weir and her people needed all the allies they could get.

Perhaps, in the light of thinking they had been betrayed, how fast her gaze had turned to the Athosians as culprits, was a slight they could not ignore.

A snub, if the boot was on the other foot, Weir would certainly not disregard.

How did it all come to this?

 _The Wraith._

That was how.

Even when they weren't present, they still divided and conquered.

Turned brother against brother.

Weir didn't think there was anything, in her entire life, she had loathed more than the Wraith.

"My advice is, when they go, for it is _when_ … Let them. You will have a bigger problem in trying to force them into staying, even if you think it is in their best interest."

Weir hummed her agreement.

"Thank you. Is that all?"

Harry pressed in closer, voice dropping low.

"Yes. That thought just now… _Wraith_. You thought of the Wraith. I keep hearing it. Wraith. Wraith. Wraith. Everywhere. Everyone. I saw something… In a few minds… A shadow. I couldn't get a good grip on the image. Fear has made it slippery to hold. However, I know what being hunted feels like. I know what loss feels like. The name… Wraith, it was interwoven with these memories. So tight I couldn't pick apart one from the other. With your memories too. _Wraith._ What are they?"

 _Of course she wouldn't know_.

Harriet had been segregated off since she had first stepped through the Gate beside Hermione Granger. Stashed away to adjust slowly but surely to the bombardment of muggle thought. It was one of the rules, amongst four, the wizarding Government had given SGC upon having, arguably, one of their best soldiers on the Atlantis mission.

One; Harriet Potter was, under no circumstances, to be disturbed prior to her acclimating to being around so many muggles at once.

Two: Harriet Potter was, under no circumstances, to be left alone, without Granger, with muggles.

Three: Harriet Potter was, under no circumstances, to be forced to drop her glamours. Whatever a Glamour was, Weir thought.

Four; and perhaps the strangest yet: Never, not once, grab Harriet by the hand. Do not touch them. Do not take her gloves off. Do not, no matter the situation, hold or shake or venture near her gloved hands.

For having a telepath capable of magic on their side, one as highly regarded as Harriet Potter was in her world despite her young age, the rules, no matter how strange they appeared, were too easy to overlook as the SGC had scrambled to say yes to them.

So easy to overlook Weir had forgotten rule number two. Weir had Granger assisting her uncle in the infirmary yesterday… Yesterday while Harriet Potter had been interviewing, _alone,_ the Athosians…

Weir scoffed at herself.

What harm had it caused?

The infirmary records, for the first time in months, were up to date, and now they new exactly where to look for the spy. Additionally, Harriet Potter seemed all the better for some alone time. Healthier than she looked yesterday, so Weir must have done something right.

"The Wraith are-"

The door buzzed once more as Bates came peeping in.

"Sir, you told me to inform you when SGA-1 are readying for departure. They're gearing up now. They should be in the Gateroom within the hour."

Weir stood from her desk.

"Right, yes, of course… Harriet, how do you feel about a little bit of travel?"

After all, rule two was broken once, a second time wouldn't do much more damage.

The woman grinned at her.

"I think that sounds wonderful."

* * *

 _Sheppard's P.O.V_

Sheppard, McKay, Ford, and Teyla, shadowed by a quartet of jittery scientists, marched into the Gateroom, checking guns, rations, medi-packs and equipment. It was expected to be a routine, run-of-the-mill mission, some agronomic examinations of a local planets soil to test for fertility for farming, but when the Stargate was involved nothing could be taken as intended.

Sheppard wasn't going to be caught with his pants down if a Wraith raid came hurtling their way.

Weir was already waiting for them by the Gate to give the big send off.

Teyla doggedly strode past her.

This would be the first mission Teyla was allowed on since the accusation of espionage had been levelled at her people.

At _herself._

She had, naturally, taken it hard.

Weir seemed to understand by the sad smile she shot at her retreating back, though she did nothing to stop her.

"Anxious to step through the Gate again, Major?"

Sheppard double checked the clip in his gone. Loaded. It wouldn't kill a Wraith, but it sure as hell would slow one down, enough for Sheppard, or his team, to run for it.

The click of the clip sliding back in echoed around them.

"Yes, I am."

Teyla spoke up by a cache of wires and camera's the scientists had assured them were completely necessary. Sheppard wasn't buying it. He spotted all the selfies lining their offices. Yet, who was he to prevent any shred of happiness one could find in this dark place?

"We all are."

Slipping the gun back in its holster by his ribs, Sheppard regarded Weir with a smile.

"Would you like us to bring back anything special?"

Weir shook her head.

"Uh, no thanks. However, you can take an extra set of eyes."

 _Please, by any god that was listening, don't let her be talking about Bates._

Scientists, no matter the danger, had the tendency to wander off. He would have enough trouble keeping track of the four under his command, let alone arguing with Bates about where to station who for tactical advantage of a possible attack.

"What?"

Weir stepped aside, and finally, Sheppard could see who stood behind her, right by the Gate, a few feet away, waiting.

Sheppard grinned.

"Coming out for a jaunty walk under the sun? You are looking a little pasty. Or is that a British thing?"

Harriet's chuckle carried over the din of the Gateroom. The back of Sheppard's neck prickled.

He wasn't sure whether the sound made him want to irrationally run away, or whether he liked it and the sudden shot of adrenaline it gave.

Perhaps a bit of both.

"Weir said with the trouble you're normally getting in, it might be best to have the local mind-reader trail you, now that I've been lifted from quarantine permanently. Plus, having a wand at your side is always a plus, isn't it?"

Sheppard zipped up his jacket.

Maybe, just maybe, he was only cold.

"No more sick stomach?"

Harriet carelessly shrugged.

Even that, something normally so awkward on everybody else, seemed gracefully fluid when done by her.

"I'm not currently… Hungry. It shouldn't be a problem."

Sheppard chuckled as he ambled close to the wormhole, skirting to the side along with Harriet to escape the blast zone, ramming his hands deep into his pockets.

"Well, let's just hope the Wraith aren't hungry either."

That got her attention.

Her head cocked, green eyes eager and curious, bolted onto him.

Sheppard nearly squirmed under the scorching stare.

Nearly, but didn't.

Thank god.

"Wraith? I keep hearing this name. What are these Wraith?"

McKay, who had been fixing up the communication devices a few steps away, blustered indignantly.

"How can you possibly not know what the Wraith are? We've been here five months and they're everywhere here!"

The glare she shot him, astonishingly, shut the doctor up.

Sheppard would have to ask how she had done that.

Maybe ask if she could teach it to him too.

"I've been locked in a bloody room for five months while Hermione has run every possible test on me to stop me from eating y-… From eating things I shouldn't eat. What part of _complete quarantine_ is hard to understand? I know you _think_ you're smart, but please, Doc, keep up."

She likely didn't have access to the countless reports of the Wraith while in quarantine, hooked up to who-knows-what while Granger ran her tests. Moreover, while she was ill, or 'grounding' herself as Hermione called it, informing her there was a subversive race right outside their door, with mouths on their hands, preparing to devour every single one of them, expectedly was counterproductive to healing and kept away until she was back on her feet.

Having a telepath, stable and in control, at their side seemed to be the prerogative rather than barraging said telepath with things she could not change.

Sheppard went to clap her on the back.

She dodged before his hand hit home.

A blink and she was over the other side of him.

His neck twanged with how fast it snapped to face her.

Okay… Touch was apparently a no go, but that speed _would_ come in handy.

His hand dropped to his side as the Stargate began turning, activating.

"I'll fill you in when we're back. Let's just say their mean and green. Come on then people, let's move out!"

Teyla was the first to move, smiling politely at Harriet as she passed and jumped through-

 _Went_ to pass.

She stalled.

Her smile sank.

Something murky and bleak and awful, a ghost, darted across her gaze.

"Teyla, you alright there?"

Sheppard cautiously asked, but whatever it was that had frozen Teyla to the spot snapped like a rubber band and she laughed.

Sheppard sensed it was more nervous than happy.

"Yes, yes. Sorry. I thought I saw… Nothing. It was nothing."

She grinned again at Harriet, but there was a stiffness to it. Rigid and brittle like stone. From the corner of his eye, Sheppard saw Harriet smile back, warm and welcoming and utterly wolfish.

Teyla strode through the Gate, promptly followed by McKay and the scientists.

"I know it can be a little frightening, but Gate travel is safe and its only cold for a little-"

She didn't need his reassurance as she, without any preamble, dived right in.

Sheppard chuckled and followed her.

The Gate whooshed closed.

* * *

 _Three Hours Later…_

Sheppard's P.O.V

Of course, the scientists got side-tracked. A set of old ruins were located around the Gate, and, according to them, they _had_ to be investigated right now for when else would they get the chance?

Who knows what secrets they held!

Or so McKay claimed.

All Sheppard saw was moss and rocks.

So here they were, three hours into a supposed two-hour mission, having not even started on what they were meant to. Sheppard would give them half hour more before he demanded they get done.

Squinting down to his watch, he missed the flicker of movement behind him in the treeline nearby. Nevertheless, when he did look up, he did see Harriet, who had taken guard by a demolished pillar on the fringes of the temple, freeze.

Her eyes darted to the trees around them, following… Something.

"Harriet?"

She grunted then. Groaned in pain as hands shot up to cover her ears much like a child would when their parents argued. Sheppard knew that one personally. It didn't help as she growled, low and guttural. Even though she wasn't too far away, close enough for Sheppard to see the pupil in her eye balloon until nearly all the evergreen was consumed, and definitely close enough for her not to yell so loudly.

"Can't you hear all the voices!?"

She was practically screaming, though she was standing next to him.

Voices?

There were only nine people here, including herself, and she had seemed fine in the Gateroom, where even more people had been ambling around and-

"Fuck! Shit! Stop! Tell them to stop! I can't hear! I can't-"

Her knees gave out just as Sheppard rushed for her. He barely managed to grasp her elbow before she plummeted to the mud below them.

"I can't-… I-… Hungry! They're starving! I-… So fuckin' hungry!"

Her pupils were blown wide, gaping black holes, and, ultimately, the chips fell.

The voices.

 _Hunger._

Beckett had theorized the Wraith were telepathically linked into a hive mind. This… If Harriet, right now, was hearing a Wraith, then she wasn't just hearing _that_ Wraith, but hearing the hive it was linked to…

 _Can't you hear all the voices!?_

Beckett had been right.

Fuck!

Sheppard hauled the suddenly paralyzed telepath up, slinking her arm over his own, shouldering her prone form and wait, as he began to shout to those around him, urging them back to the gate.

"Wraith! Move out! We have Wraith incoming!"

She was mumbling something, lowly, fast, quicker than he was ever possible of catching.

Abandoning the equipment behind, the small group made it to the dais of the Stargate before the first Wraith showed their face, bursting out the trees, firing their stunners at the huddled cluster of humans.

"Start the Gate, now!"

Sheppard barked. Having heard the gunfire, Ford and Teyla, who had gone further afield to find supplies, buzzed through the walkie-talkie at his chest.

"Major, what's the situation?"

Ducking low to the ground to miss a blast, Sheppard hustled Harriet over so he could answer.

"Lieutenant, we're taking fire. You're going to have to circle round to get back to the Gate."

"Teyla's not with me. She went to-"

"Find her and get yourselves back."

The call cut off.

The gate stabilized.

"Move out!"

Sheppard hollered as he shot his own fire back, cover for the scientists scurrying through the wormhole.

His aim was lucky and one of the big guards went down, crashing to the ground.

He only realised his mistake after the fact.

The mistake that the Atoman currently blitzed in his grasp was, unfortunately, telepathically linked to the downed Wraith.

Hearing his dying thoughts.

 _Feeling_ his dying breathes.

Harriet violently jerked out his hold, growling and snarling and-

Suddenly, there was a hand around his throat, constricting, his feet were off the floor, dangling, and he was left breathless in the face of undiluted, pure rage.

Her free hand came up, fingers curled, leather creaking, looking like she was going to backhand his head clean off his shoulders or-

 _Or._

If she was a Wraith, Sheppard would say she unnervingly appeared as if she was seconds from _feeding_ on him.

Another three Wraiths broke the treeline, stunners raised and ready.

They caught her attention.

Distracted, he was dropped as, thank all, Harriet seemed to come back to herself with a shattering blink.

A Wraith fired a shot.

It was targeted right at him, he could see it coming, a flash of green, bright, brilliant, brutal.

She stepped in front of him.

The shot hit, bounced, she stumbled and-

Stayed perfectly upright.

A stunner to the shoulder, and all she did was stagger.

"Stop!"

The Wraith charged.

"I said _freeze!"_

Sheppard went to pull her away, run, sprint, because, what the hell did she think-

The Wraith halted.

Stopped.

Completely still.

Guns lifted, mid-stride, frozen in time.

What the fuck was-

"Hurry up and get through the bloody gate! I can't hold 'em for much longer."

The scientists took their chance, plunging into the Stargate back to Atlantis.

McKay ducked around the stiff back of Harriet, glanced up to her face, intense, fevered in concentration, pupils still blown wide.

A trickle of blood escaped her nose, ran down her lip, dripping of her chin.

"How the hell are you doing-"

"Telepathic ties work both ways, but I'm not strong enough to hold them… Too many… Screaming… Can't… Run! Please!"

Sheppard took a step back, dragging McKay with him.

"I'm not leaving you behind to face-"

"I'll be right behind you. Just go!"

The Wraith came too just as Sheppard hauled McKay into his side, as they lept through the wormhole.

The gate closed.

They landed in a heap in the Gateroom, a skidding, flopping mess of limbs.

Sheppard glanced back to the gate.

Nothing.

She hadn't made it through.

* * *

Harriet's P.O.V

Her legs collapsed beneath her, knees unforgivingly hitting stone. Her mind was a jumbled tangle of thorns, thoughts like rushing rivers in a thousand directions, sights she weren't seeing, voices not her own.

Why was everything so loud?

She couldn't-

Those things in the woods, the ones coming for them-

Couldn't see them, not properly. Not with so many images running through her own mind at once, unsure what was hers and not the voices and-

Hands over ears.

Eyes scrunched tight.

Shut up!

Shut up!

Shut up!

Footsteps approaching, pounding on grass… Slowing… Slowing…

 _Humming._

She could hear humming over the madness of thoughts and pictures and-

Humming.

She hummed back.

She didn't know why, but she did.

She trilled.

Something-

 _Someone_ trilled back.

The song of the crickets, echoing, finding one another.

Follow the song.

Pick the thread back home.

Something soft on her cheek.

The cool rinse of her glamours falling-

Her eyes snapped open.

Right into another pair.

A pair that belonged to a face strangely like her own.

Her _true_ face.

White hair cascading, green skin slick, recessive nose, ridged brow and keen eyed.

The Wraith…

They were-

They-

 _She was just like them._

He had his hand on her face, gentle.

He was humming to her.

She was humming _back._

* * *

 _Thoughts?_

 **A.N:** Wraith are descended from the Iratus Bug, a type of insect, and a lot of insects on earth locate and find each other through songs, humming or other types of music they create. I always thought it would be cool if the Wraith showed more signs of being insectoid rather than just in their appearance and having a hive-mind, and thought this one would be good to add.

I also wanted to test out Sheppard before adding him to the pairing, to let you guys, as well as myself, get a feel for him. I hope you liked it, and let me know what you think!

 **Thank you** for all the follows, favourites, and of course reviews. Sorry this update has taken so long, I really am the worst, but I'm steadily making my way through my fics, after a bit of a Hiatus, and updating. I hope this chapter made up for the wait and I really do hope you're looking forward to what comes next!

As always, if you have a spare moment, please drop a review, they keep the Wraiths humming lol


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